


Song of Ancients

by RainySpringMorning



Series: Daughter of Akatosh [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Drama & Romance, Existential Crisis, F/M, Minor Character Death, Morality, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2018-09-09 02:57:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 89,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8873020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RainySpringMorning/pseuds/RainySpringMorning
Summary: The World-Eater has been slain and with him, the saviour herself, ashes scattered to the four winds. A new year marks the beginning of peace for Skyrim. But the unending passage of time dawns a new fate, and with it will come dangers that will test an already battle-scarred world. From the ashes, a new fire will ignite and with it... the foretold destiny as sung by the ancients.Song of Ancients is the second volume of Daughter of Akatosh. It is the sequel to The Voice Within.DISCLAIMER: The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim and all associated characters and content within this story belongs to Bethesda Game Studios.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> And alas, here we are again at the beginning of another tale to tell. It took me two years to complete The Voice Within and I have no idea how long it will take me to finish this one... but we've done it once so we can definitely do it again! I've been working on the strings of Song of Ancients since about the halfway mark of the previous story, and let me tell you right now: It's going to be long and it's going to be brutal. The rating is not yet finalized, and all of my tags will be updated accordingly as chapters are completed and published. 
> 
> Song of Ancients is dedicated to every single one of you who read, commented, left kudos, and bookmarked The Voice Within. Thank you a thousand times! You decided to give Eonwe's story a chance. Whether you've been here before or you're new to us, I'd like to extend a warm welcome and many thanks for stopping by. I hope to see you in the comments and that we can share in the fun (and suffering) of this story together. Cheers and as always, dearest readers, enjoy.

Long ago in the Merethic Era, time stood precariously on the edge of a revolution that would forever reshape the fate of the land, and the Nine gathered as its witnesses.

Moth and Owl, Bear and Whale, Fox and Wolf, and Snake and Hawk watched the sunrise on the distant horizon over the rigid mountains, and the mists of early day were swept aside by the wings of Dragon. Magnificent on a level that was truly stupendous, Dragon descended and knelt before his fellow Gods, who in turn bowed back respectfully. Dragon was their leader, the chief deity among them, but all in turn were worthy of the respect they maintained for one another.

“What is to be done regarding your First-Born?” Bear asked once Fox finished bowing, impatient to begin the meeting. “He calls himself Akatosh, and the humans believe him to be yourself, milord. A God among mortals, pah!”

“Alduin is as foolish as they come,” Moth commented delicately. “He lacks wisdom.” Owl hooted in solemn agreement.

“I have not decided what fate I must bestow upon him,” Dragon admitted, mantling his wings and sitting back on his haunches. He lifted a long foreleg and withdrew from within himself an hourglass filled with sand, and placed it before the Deities. They looked upon the glass warily, for it was the Glass of Destiny – one of the most powerful and most feared artefacts the Deities bore; Dragon would have brought it for one reason and one reason alone: To alter the world as it was known. Wolf, overcome with indecision, stepped forward.

“Humans have crossed the sea and were met with beliefs that are not their own,” she said reasonably. “It is common among their kind to wage war over what is and what must be. We cannot judge them for learning and growing; we have done the same.”

“Their beliefs are not shared equally,” Owl said crossly. “We must remember that these humans are fragile and ever-changing.”

“They are stubborn enough to be set on this course of action,” Snake hissed. “And the Priests are not helping the situation.”

“Enough arguing,” Whale sighed.

Hawk thrust herself forward and raised her head, eyes glinting. “I believe a voice of reason needs to be heard among the chaos,” she began strongly, eyeing those around her with a challenging look. “I have felt their capability to carry such a gift, and I shall be the one to offer it to them, but only if we can come to an agreement.”

“Hawk, you know I will decline,” Bear told her. “The mortals deserve no more power than they have already claimed for themselves.”

Dragon had listened quietly to the push and pull of their words, but now he grasped the hourglass in his talons and began to turn it. Fox padded forward and raised a slender black paw, laying it upon one of the hooked claws, his intelligent amber gaze fixed on Dragon.

“I agree with Hawk,” he announced, clearly enough to bring a silence to the bickering behind him. Dragon looked deeply into the God’s face and nodded, releasing the glass. Wolf and Moth came forward together.

“We too agree,” Moth said.

All but Bear and Snake drew forth, voicing their agreement. Snake, though doubtful, eventually nodded his diamond-patterned head and flicked his tongue. Bear snorted in anger.

“It is decided,” Dragon said presently, looking to Hawk. “May the humans see past judgement and understand our choice. Speak to the dragon Paarthurnax; it will be he who shall guide them. I feel a rebellion in his heart that could easily be swayed to empathy. Take this with you.”

Inhaling deeply, Dragon released a shivering breath of his essence and it formed into a small stone. Hawk grasped it firmly, lifting into the sky and winging away, her piercing cry breaking the stillness of morning. With the sound, the Gods began to disperse, returning to from whence they’d come, until it was only Dragon and Fox who remained.

Dragon glanced down at Fox. “You are far too much in the way of foresight,” he commented. Fox bared his pointed teeth in a grin and tapped the glass with a paw, its power chiming in answer. “They will surely name a clever fool after you, one of these days."

Fox barked with laughter. “I quite like the sound of that, but we will have to wait and see. But what of you?” he inquired. “How is your little project coming along? And don’t pretend I don’t know about it. I know how much you enjoy meddling with fate.”

Dragon rumbled with humour and stored the hourglass away, the throb of its power fading to calm silence. “Time will tell,” he uttered, gathering himself and launching into the sky, and Fox watched the pale spot fade until he was gone.

∞

_They say dead men tell no lies. I am not a dead man but, if I’m to be honest… I don’t really know who I am anymore._

_I no longer live by the call of time or the decree of fate. I am among the eternal, an immortal shell caught in the web of infinity. Power thrums beneath my skin; my very being has been altered. It was not a gift that Akatosh bestowed upon me, but the curse of undeath. I walk among the timelessness of the dragons, my distant brethren, who’s voices echo in the throb of my soul._

_No longer do I follow the path laid down for me; I have been left to carve my own way._

_What does it mean, for me to walk this world without barrier? I have played my part in the way of destiny – Alduin lies dead and I stand as the victor, the vanquisher. Qahnaarin. I have no idea what comes next or what I’m here for. I look into the reflection of water and see a face that is my own, and yet she is no longer me; I look down at my hands and see familiar lines and fingers which have taken and saved lives both, but these are hands without purpose. I see the toes of my feet that have travelled to the deepest of dwellings and to the upmost peaks, but what path am I intended to follow?_

_And I see the scars, the ugly pink ribbons tearing through me and remind me daily of the battles I have won, but for a purpose I have not been shown. I wonder for how long I’ve been immortal. I wonder if I am living outside of the refraining walls of my intended destiny. How much do I not know?_

_I am afraid._

_My destiny has been reshaped and I stand on the brink of change and revolution. I don’t know who I have become. I’m meant to be dead! I’m not meant to be living, but I am. Why? I could ask a hundred variants of the same question but I know I will not get the answers I seek. The truth lies ahead but I am terrified of what it holds. The path is narrowing, and I am being drawn closer to the mysteries revolving around my being. My existence must have some meaning – it must! – but once I know, will I wish for ignorance? Should I be grateful that I am not aware of what waits for me around the next bend? I am as permanent as ink onto parchment, but how long until I fade?_

_How long before I am lost?_


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ladies and gentlemen, may I present the first chapter of Daughter of Akatosh Vol. 2: Song of Ancients.

_4E 203, 26 th of Morning Star_

A fortnight had passed since the dragon had brought Eonwe to the edge of Lake Honrich.

Brynjolf didn’t know what compelled him to walk to Honeyside. It had been her home for a brief time, and there were hardly any traces of her existence to be found, but the waterside construction was quiet and he felt he needed the quiet. Making short work of the lock and slipping into the small kitchenette, he saw a few cupboards for wine selections and stacked dishes. A single table with two chairs filled the wall between the windows, cleared of plates and utensils except for a jar of honey.

It was a front, a false identity; Brynjolf stared at the starkness and almost left when he saw something glittering on the bedside table. The magpie he was, he crossed the landing towards it and picked the object up.

It was a ring, forged of Dwemer metal and set with a polished blue rock. It had an otherworldly quality; it was neither masculine nor feminine, but it was distinguished and completely out of place. It had a nice weight to it. He wondered if it had been hers, but doubted it when he drew the delicate silver band from his pocket, etched with small designs: Madesi’s ring, the one he’d instructed her to take – a material object, it was the only thread that united their lives and imprinted their place in history. Brynjolf returned the silver ring to its place in his pocket and, without much hesitation, slid the Dwemer ring onto an index finger; it fit comfortably, as though made for him.

With a tired sigh, he ran a hand through his hair and rubbed his eyes; he’d thought he would have felt more at peace, coming to Honeyside and perhaps finding something of hers to cherish as a memory, but now it was as though the world rested on his shoulders with twice the weight from before. The tight sensation of overwhelming loss nearly choked him; he wanted to see her, to hold her within his arms and crush her to him. He envisioned her behind closed lids, seeing the sweet roundness of her heart-shaped face and full tender smile, one that had been so rare and fleeting but lovely to behold. Eonwe was gone, lost to the ages; a memory he couldn’t bear to erase or embrace, and it was killing him inside.

Locking the house on his way out, he skirted past the garden and crossed by the gates, noting the lack of a guard. His walk was almost sluggish, aimless in direction, as he struggled to box up his thoughts and not think anymore. Following the dirt path, he nodded at Sapphire in greeting where the lookout was positioned behind one of the wealthier homes, watching for any approaching guards or homeowners. She returned the greeting and leaned back against the post, surveying the night. Brynjolf carried on past the abandoned Riftweald Manor and vaulted over the wrought-iron fence into the graveyard.

All at once, he was face to face with a mercenary standing on guard in the rounded entrance of the mausoleum. Startled by each other’s abrupt appearance, Brynjolf saw the secret entrance open just beyond, and suspicion broadened into alarm.

Shedding preliminary introductions, his hand fell to his dagger as the mercenary drew his sword.

∞

“You know, Vex, I’ve never seen a woman with white hair quite as beautiful as you.”

It was meant to be a compliment but instead, it rang with false impression and he ended up poking the snake rather than enticing it with the sun-warmed rock. Vex swung her head, pale hair in question rippling around her face, and gave him a smile sweet enough to convince a beggar of his last coin.

But this wasn’t Delvin’s first soiree.

Snake poised to strike, Vex batted her eyelashes – ashen at the roots with frosted tips – and said, “Gee, Delvin. I’ll try to take you calling me old as a compliment, _this time_.” She was sure to accentuate the last two words as dryly as she could. The amber of her eyes flashed around the pinprick pupil in the wavering candle flame.

Delvin sighed in defeat. “Will you ever see anythin’ in me, Vex? I know I’m no young hotshot like Vipir-”

“Vipir’s an ass,” Vex pointed out.

“…and I’m mountains away from being anythin’ like the man Bryn is. He can charm the pants off anyone,” Delvin added jokingly, though he was admittedly envious of the red-haired thief’s natural flare for the complexities of attraction. “But you know how I feel about-”

“Speaking of Bryn,” Vex interrupted distractedly.

Delvin banged his head on the table.

“Have you noticed him lately? I mean…” she twisted a strand of hair and frowned. “Have you talked to him at all since…?”

Delvin shook his head. “I was hopin’ he’d come ‘round on his own but, he’s only getting’ worse. ‘Tis been about two weeks since…” Trailing off, they stared at each other, the same sadness reflected in their eyes. They recalled what couldn’t be said in words. Delvin could still feel the lifeless weight clutched between his arms, and hear Brynjolf’s mournful cries in his ears, and he shuddered. Vex reached out and lightly rested her hand on top of his, expressing her sympathy in wordless companionship.

No one had spoken her name since.

“I miss her,” Delvin admitted. “She brought a light to this place I’d not seen in decades, and she did so much for the Guild. Got us back on our feet and everythin.”

“I miss bossing her around,” Vex smiled. “All of that lockpick training… it went for weeks on end. Gods, I still remember her falling asleep trying to get it right.”

Delvin raised his drink. “To Eonwe,” he murmured quietly, the first toast in her name. Vex echoed his toast solemnly.

They drank in unison.

“Well, thanks to her, business is boomin’,” he gestured to three gentlemen entering the Ragged Flagon. One was Redguard, and the other two were Nords; all of the warrior build, they wore heavy cloaks and carried enormous weapons. The Nord with blue streaks painted across his face carried a serrated greatsword, the teeth made for causing mortal pain rather than delivering a clean blow.

“Mercenaries, by the look of them. Might be carrying valuables,” Vex observed, twisting around in her chair. “Hey, Ton. Check out the view.”

The fence, busy with her books, threw Vex a half-sneer and left the suspended dock as they lined up at the counter. Delvin paid them little mind, except for watching in vague interest; there’d been much bigger lads – and lasses too – who’d stopped for drinks and socializing in the Ragged Flagon before, but strangely, these men didn’t look at all like those types. In fact, he almost expected them to pull out a warrant for arrest.

_Relax, ya old codger. Where’s the paranoia comin’ from, eh?_

Tonilia drew up next to one and was making a short inquiry. Vekel placed three horn mugs in front of them, topped to the rim with foamy dark ale. The Nord with blue war paint grinned in a very wolfish manner. It was unsettling.

The Redguard laughed at some joke Vekel made and reached out, seemingly intending to clap him on the shoulder. His teeth flashed white against his dark skin.

All at once, he was banging Vekel’s head off the counter and drawing his dagger, plunging it into the bartender’s back. Tonilia screamed, the piercing cry ringing off the walls.

Delvin and Vex leaped to their feet, daggers in hand as the blue-painted mercenary ran the fence through with his serrated greatsword. Blood bubbled past her lips and she collapsed, hitting the stone with a sickening thud. Delvin put himself in front of Vex as the mercenaries looked their way.

“I don’t know who you are but I’m warnin’ you, stay back!” Delvin threatened, dagger brandished before him.

“Hurt him and I’ll cut your balls off!” Vex added savagely.

The blue-painted mercenary ignored them and asked, “Which of you is Brynjolf?” There was an unsettling look in his eye and Delvin, the smart bloke he was, figured it out. This wasn’t a mistake, at all, as he’d hoped; it was an execution.

Thinking quickly, he said, “I am.” Vex made a sound of complaint but he ignored her.

The blue-painted mercenary hefted his greatsword. Blood gleamed wetly on the toothed edges. It was more intimidating when Vekel had wielded his meat cleaver if patrons got a little too out of hand or were cut off for a second time. “Our boss wants to have a little chat,” he appealed. “Tell your confidant to stand down.”

“And if not?” Vex asked bitterly, tightening her grip on her dagger.

The mercenary grinned, the smile lupine. “Then it’ll be hard to explain to our contractor why we had to bring his head to her.”

“Her?” Delvin echoed. “Who hired you?”

The mercenary didn’t answer. In fact, he threw back his head with a roar of pain. An arrow protruded from his thigh, having pierced his hamstring. Niruin stood in the archway, another arrow readied. “Go!” the Bosmer yelled.

Grabbing Vex by the hand, Delvin plunged into the hip-deep water and drove forward to the metal grate in the far corner, caught with slimy algae and discarded bottles. He and Vex pried it off. Water splashed behind them; the third of the mercenaries – one with war paint that looked uncomfortably like blood and carried an axe with the same serrated edge as the greatsword – was coming their way.

A thin howl announced Niruin’s downfall.

Delvin grabbed Vex by the arm and looked her in the eye. Her mouth was clamped tight with fear. Pushing her ahead and into the tunnel, uncertainty flickered in her amber eyes as she turned to look back at him, a protest on her lips.

“Make for the stone,” he ordered. “If they get me, don’t stop.” Vex nodded and tore away, boots splashing as she ran.

He dodged as the axe clanged and sent sparks flying beside his ear. The Breton thief waded out of reach of the mercenary and saw the other two watching in amusement, leaning on the rails of the dock. A searing lance of fury tore through him and he threw his dagger at the blue-painted mercenary, but he dodged the arcing metal with ease.

“You’re coming with us,” the mercenary in the water said behind him. Delvin glanced at him darkly. He resembled Thrynn so closely that they could have been brothers, except for the one filmy blind eye, and the ugly scar pulling his lip into a permanent grimace. Stepping backwards, Delvin felt his heel come down on empty space and realized he’d reached the middle of the canal, where the water plunged several feet down. Opportunity had made itself clear, but it would only work provided he didn’t fall in, too.

“C’mon, then,” Delvin said, pretending to give in and holding out his arms. “I’ll come willin’ly.”

The Thrynn-lookalike edged forward, eyes focused on Delvin. Another step, and…

In a slew of water, Delvin darted aside and grabbed the mercenary by the arm, yanking him forward and moving just in the nick of time to avoid the flailing hands seeking purchase. The mercenary crashed headlong into the deeper water and, floundering for a brief moment, sank like a stone with the weight of his armor.

Delvin charged for the tunnel and nearly hurled himself into it, crawling frantically until he got his feet under him and was able to flat-out run. One of the mercenaries pursued, bellowing after him. Lowering his head, he sprinted toward the end.

Dropping into knee-deep rapids, he headed for the storm drain that served as the Guild’s old escape route and climbed out, soaking himself with water as he squeezed through the small opening. The air of outdoors brushed his face as he pushed free of the storm drain and into the icy shallows of Lake Honrich on its eastern side, then set out working his way to the shoreline. There he sat for a few moments, shivering in the snow, knowing the mercenaries wouldn’t catch up immediately. The night wind rustled the ash trees, and the lake lapped around his knees.

A deep-rooted sadness bubbled up in him, sudden and unexpected, clawing deep in his chest.

The Guild was destroyed.

“Look out!” Vex shouted in warning behind him, but too late. The sharp edge of a sword rested against his throat and Delvin tilted his head up, eyes widening.

Grimsever glinted in the moonlight, the blue-green malachite blade cast silver in the night, its edge deadly sharp and as thin as a sheet of parchment. Mjoll the Lioness wore the beginnings of a triumphant smirk, chaos in her yellow eyes, ravenous as a wolf’s as she glared down at her prey. Four mercenaries stood with her, and two held a struggling Vex between them. The Lioness frowned at the sight of him, her eyes flinty with irritation.

“This is not Brynjolf,” she snapped in disapproval. Her heavy blonde mane shone pewter, pale moonbeams tumbling down her shoulders.

“Nah, but I’m his second in command,” Delvin grinned in the face of danger. “Glad to know who is behind this little charade.”

Mjoll smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile. “Where is he?” she inquired. The pressure at his neck increased and a bead of warmth dripped down below his collar to his chest.

“Bryn? Oh, he’s not ‘round often anymore,” Delvin shrugged, albeit carefully as to not disturb the sword’s edge. “Went on holidays to Hammerfell and didn’t bother to take any of us with him, selfish bastard.”

The Thane sighed, a sound of disappointment. “I should kill you and your little wildcat, but I have better ideas in mind. Is ransom part of your _Guild_ vocabulary?” She pronounced ‘Guild’ with distain.

“I’m afraid we’re too busy,” Vex hissed in answer. Mjoll made a motion with one hand and the sound of a hand striking flesh shattered the night. The Imperial’s cheek turned scarlet from the blow, and she glared through her hair with hard topaz eyes. Delvin looked away from her angry, pleading stare. He couldn’t do anything except stall for time.

“I will ask once more,” Mjoll said. “Where. Is. Brynjolf?”

Delvin met her square in the eye. “Likely lyin’ with the dead in the cistern,” he answered emotionlessly. “You’d better go and check.”

The Thane pursed her lips, holding in her frustration, then lowered Grimsever. “Watch these two until I return. Ofin and Kjell, with me.” She strode away, the two mercenaries following like obedient dogs, and Delvin was roughly brought to his feet by one of the mercenaries left to guard him and Vex.

As soon as they were out of hearing range, the two thieves acted. Delvin stomped on his captor’s foot and drove an elbow back into his stomach, loosening his grip. He lunged at the mercenary holding Vex but was grabbed halfway before he could reach him. Vex kneed her captor in the crotch and he fell to one knee, oozing blood and profanities.

“Go, Vex!” Delvin shouted as her adrenaline-fueled gaze locked on his. “Run!”

The Imperial whisked away and sprinted away from the lakeside, pale hair concealing into her hood and melting her figure into the treeline.

“That was a dumb move,” the mercenary rasped in Delvin’s ear, still recovering from the strike to his gut, securing Delvin’s hands with leather ties from his pockets.

The Breton grinned, a thin trickle of blood staining his lip where a tooth had been loosened. “Eh, well. She’s worth it,” he answered, and a hood was pulled down over his head.

∞

Blood drops sparkled like rubies on the petals of the nightshade flowers.

Brynjolf unknowingly left a streak of blood across his face when he rubbed his hand across his cheek, scarlet-drenched daggers slippery in his grip. The mercenary – or what was left of him – lay slumped against one of the headstones.

Slipping through the secret entrance and climbing down the ladder, he halted in his descent at the sound of nearby voices, just loud enough to make out what they were saying.

“…of them are taken care of. She was right… whole damn Guild under the city.”

“Did you see the one matching the description she gave us?”

“No. Akiid or Wuulf might have found him. Let’s get out of here – I feel as though the shadows are watching us.”

Brynjolf felt a chill run up his spine as he retuned to the above world and threaded his bloody fingers through his hair before realizing what he was doing; he then realized what he _should_ be doing. He abandoned the graveyard and drew up his hood, slipping the daggers into his belt as he rushed down the path to where Sapphire had been standing guard.

Relieved that she was still there, she jumped when he loomed up beside her and grasped her shoulder. They both saw his fingers stained red, and her deep-blue gaze lifted in alarm.

“The Guild’s been compromised,” he warned her. “Get to the stone.”

Nodding silently, too shocked to speak, the lookout walked briskly down the path and tucked her dark hair into her grey hood. Brynjolf heard the gates clank closed behind her, with no ensuing sounds of battle.

Taking a few steps back for a run-up, Brynjolf kicked off the support post and grasped the beam below the porch of the house; relying on strength alone to haul his solid thirteen stone up, he climbed over the bannister and unlocked the backdoor of the abode.

The home was Bolli and Nivenor’s. Brynjolf’s fingers itched as he passed through the wood elf’s private study, decorated by gleaming strands of flashing opals and glittering diamonds, but finding and securing Rune was of more importance. Descending through the two-levelled house, he found Rune flipping through a notebook beside a locked safe. The Imperial swung around in fear as Brynjolf hissed his name.

“You startled me!” he exclaimed. “Is something wrong?”

“Get to the meeting place and stay there,” Brynjolf instructed swiftly. “Mercenaries attacked the Guild.”

“ _What?_ ” Rune went whiter than a sheet. “Is everyone alright? How has this happened?”

“Rune, _we need to go_ ,” he said through his teeth, towing the Imperial along behind him. “There’s no time left.”

∞

The Standing Stone stood on a hill overlooking the road and the lake beyond. The first rays of dawn were beginning to pierce the deep indigo sky. Vex and Sapphire raised their heads as Brynjolf and Rune crested the rise, half-hidden by their drawn hoods. Sapphire went to Rune’s side and he gingerly draped an arm around her shoulders; she leaned into him briefly, welcoming the respite.

“It was Mjoll,” Vex spoke before anyone had a chance to ask. “She was looking for you, Bryn.” She took a breath before adding, “I wouldn’t have escaped, if it weren’t for Delvin…”

Brynjolf’s legs nearly gave out beneath him. “He’s dead?” he said hollowly.

_How many more am I going to lose?_

Vex shook her head. “I don’t know.”

Brynjolf’s impatience snapped but before he could say anything more, Rune cleared his throat. He glanced at Sapphire, who nodded encouragingly, and he drew himself upright and met Brynjolf’s eyes boldly.

“We must do something,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. “Avenge them.”

“Rune, they butchered Vekel and Tonilia,” Vex murmured. Everyone looked at her and suddenly it occurred to Brynjolf that she alone had escaped the attack. “Mjoll wanted us dead; she didn’t pull any punches. I’m lucky to be alive.”

“Aye, lass. I’ve had one or two words with her in the past,” Brynjolf said. “I never thought it would reach this point. Riften is under her command and none of us will be safe here. What question we need to ask is: How are we going to reach Delvin?”

“There are only four of us,” Sapphire complained, hands curling in and out of nervous fists.

“Five,” a new voice called.

Melting from the shadows, Karliah’s violet eyes glowed, reflecting the growing light of daybreak. Joining the gathered cluster, she looked between them all before settling her gaze on Brynjolf. It occurred to him he’d not seen her since the funeral. “Nocturnal forewarned me of the hour of the Guild’s demise. It seems I am too late.”

“I’m expected to believe that bitch cares about us now?” Brynjolf scoffed.

Karliah’s eyes narrowed. “She cares about her agents, Brynjolf.”

“What’s in it for her?” he challenged. “She didn’t before. After all we did for the Guild, and this is what was waiting in the cards?”

“Brynjolf, _enough_ ,” Karliah snapped. “Quarreling will bring us nowhere. This was preordained.” She hesitated, as though afraid to clarify with the others there, so she looked Brynjolf in the eye and said, “The fate of the Guild has changed and relies on us to rebuild it. We must prepare ourselves for that responsibility. Can _you_ handle that weight?”

No, of course he couldn’t. Inside, he was screaming. The Guild was his home, his family. It was all he had left… but to lead it? And _now_ of all times? Subconsciously, he realized he had the silver ring between his fingers, rubbing the delicate band in a reassuring gentleness.

He needed her, but she wasn’t there. He needed to stand on his own feet this time, as he’d done before she came. He sought a steadying breath, feeling it whistle through his throat, and he nodded meekly. “Aye, I can handle it.”

“Good.” Reaching out, Karliah pressed her hand to the Shadow Stone and vanished; deliberate and theatrical, as always. “Go to Solitude. Do not delay,” she instructed, her disembodied voice drifted through the air. “Shadows guide you.”

Gathering Vex, Sapphire, and Rune – the final remnants of the Thieves Guild – Brynjolf led the way into the covering darkness of the trees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter One has been sitting in my files for several months, untouched and completely finished. I decided to make a few final edits and publish it tonight. Finally, eh? I will be taking my time with writing (I've found forcing it doesn't result in good writing, or any writing at all, actually) but I did promise to start publishing in 2017 and... this is May 2017, last I looked. 
> 
> As always, thank you for reading.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter! I was doubtful if I would update with another chapter before June or once it was here, but I've decided to throw caution to the wind and update anyway. I made a few final adjustments and gave everything a quick glance over, and it tells what I want to tell. The story is now set in the present time (Fourth Era 203) and someone makes a mysterious return...  
> Please enjoy and thanks for reading!

_4E 203, 14 th of Sun’s Height – Present Day_

“Would you be needing anything else, milord?” the barmaid asked as she placed the twin horn mugs on the table between Brynjolf and Karliah. The red-haired thief shook his head solemnly and looked up at the lass. She was young and had oddly-coloured eyes, the blue broken by brown – as though someone had dripped ink into them – but they were ringed by dark tired lines that drew from their splendor. He rifled in his pocket for an extra coin and pressed it into her palm with a small smile, and she glowed in appreciation.

She was built small and had quick fingers, perfect recruitment material, but her eyes would give her away all too easily; cloaking one’s identification was key in the life of a thief. Brynjolf was aware of how much he himself already stood out, in ordinary garb or thief leathers alike; his red hair was unusual and uncommonly seen in the streets of Solitude. He would have offered a job to the barmaid if not for that one sole quality; it would fetch better than a tavern’s pay and she would have the company of friends to boot.

But then again, she might complain or give them trouble with the law, and they weren’t in a position to handle that; it was hard enough trying to win allegiance in the city, and Erikur wasn’t making it any easier with his innumerable contracts that were becoming risker and risker each time he sent for their aid. They restricted themselves from accepting murder contracts, instead deferring clientele to the assassins; they paid almost four times better and Brynjolf was beginning to wonder if the Thieves Guild would need to change with the times if they expected to continue their existence, despite it going against their tenants. And he didn’t lower himself to killing unless he didn’t have a choice; in recent months, he’d nearly not had much of a choice in anything, but he refused to bend what was left of his morals to comply with a thief’s way of life.

It was becoming harder, and the influence had already begun to shown in the changes of their armor; they’d taken the measures – at everyone’s insistence – to integrate more protection into their gear. A change in colour had been necessary as well; the classic browns and blacks had been swapped for brownish-greys and heather cotton, and light chainmail now wrapped their waists and upper arms, stitched directly into the leather vests. Brynjolf had kept his old black leathers, at the insistence he spent more time at headquarters than anyone else; or how it was senseless to waste the precious coin on himself, jokingly adding he’d spend more time buried under paperwork and taking on Delvin’s role of bookkeeping than seeing the light of day.

Truthfully, but not surprisingly, it was because difficult to let go of the past, even if the future provided better outcomes than a disintegrating way of life.

Besides, Erikur had offered assurances that if they were successful in their newest contract – something about planting illegal contraband on a docked vessel – then he would open the gates for the thieves to live in abundance under his protection. Brynjolf didn’t necessarily like the man; he was braggart and his humour was intolerable, and he flaunted his wealth and fame as though he were the second coming of Talos. He didn’t blame Erikur’s elder sister, Gisli – a lesser known noblewoman with a quiet authority and power of her own overshadowed by her zealous kid brother – for spreading the propaganda she did, mostly because it was all true. He’d considered going to her several times, but Vex had already warned him that she was much closer to the law than her brother, leaving him the only option; there was great need for the Thieves Guild to be aligned with the rebel factions and those who didn’t necessarily believe in the law, with they not being a law-abiding faction after all.

So far, it had only been thanks to Gulum-Ei and his ties to the Blackblood Marauders through his shell-siblings that the Guild had managed to remain adrift as long as they’d had. It had been a grueling six months since they’d picked up and run from the cistern. The East Empire Warehouse was their boon but guard had increased with the recent vampire uprising, and everyone was insanely cautious and attentive to detail. The thieves were few in number and couldn’t risk losing any more of their own; they’d managed to recruit three new faces – none of whom could truly replace those who had been close confidants left behind, not able to be buried in kind – but Brynjolf was trying to have high hopes for them. The Bosmer had proven to be the best of the lot, while the Khajiit and Breton had a long way to go before they could be allowed on solo jobs. _It would be easier if Delvin were here_ , he thought darkly, taking a swig of ale and grimacing at the dark bitterness as he swallowed. _It would be easier if all of them were here_.

Karliah was watching the tavern patrons sitting in small groups around the establishment, her violet eyes flitting attentively. Brynjolf wondered how she remained so postured in the midst of this mess; he was barely holding himself together – not to mention the added weight of being Guild Master – and yet here the elf sat in calm silence. If anything, she had _drawn_ from the unsteadiness of the last few months and used it to her advantage; it was as though she was strongest when she was at her weakest, which made some sense. Here she had lived on the run for nearly thirty years, covering her tracks and living within her own skin, relying on all she knew and everything she had come to learn.

Of them all, Karliah was the strongest, and it was why Brynjolf had named her his acting second-in-command; he needed stability and confidence, and to not have to question her loyalty or capability. She was grounded and could hold her own – whether it be a job, a problem, or a fight – and he could dismiss his worries whenever he let her handle a situation he wasn’t able to. He’d wondered if she would make a better Guild Master than he…

“Are you thinking of her?” the Dunmer asked softly, surprising him with how upfront she could be. But then again, he shouldn’t have been surprised; she was quick and to-the-point on a daily basis. It was only because she knew exactly where his mind had begun to stray that caught him off guard, and she saw his answer written across his strained face before he’d even opened his mouth.

Instead he asked, “How did you get past it, after Gallus died?”

Karliah sipped her ale and tucked a loose strand of hair behind one slender, pointed ear. “I didn’t,” she responded calmly. “I’m still disturbed by his absence every day that I live. I comfort myself knowing he’s in the shadows protecting me, and that when Nocturnal believes I have satisfied our contract, I will be with him again. Until then, I live to honour his name and his memory. Life is precious,” she added, fixing him with her sharp purple stare. “I will live the years he could not, in the hope he finds joy from where he walks in my shadow.”

“Do you believe that?” Brynjolf asked doubtfully. “That when you die, you really become one with the shadows?”

“For Nightingales, yes. I believe that,” she nodded. “But you forget… Eonwe ceased her ties to Nocturnal when she returned the Skeleton Key. She isn’t here, Brynjolf.”

“Sometimes I’m not sure,” he confided in an undertone, and Karliah tilted her head in question. “I mean- what if the lass…” he stopped, not sure of what he was trying to say.

“Is this because she proved you wrong once?” she inquired.

“I held her in my arms, Karliah. I saw for myself. I know she’s dead but…” he swallowed nervously as a sudden hush fell over the tavern, and he dropped his voice. “I keep seeing her.”

“What do you mean? Are you dreaming about her?”

“No. I mean-- _I am_ , and I don’t understand what any of it means but… what I meant is that I keep thinking she’s here. Someone walks by and I think it’s her. I smell her skin when I wake up; I hear her voice when it’s quiet,” he paused and laughed uneasily. “I’m going insane.”

“Tell me about the dreams,” Karliah prompted, leaning forward on her crossed arms.

“They’re just dreams, Karliah,” he said exasperatedly. “You’d not concern yourself with them.”

The elf snorted in annoyance. “I _will_ concern myself with them if they’re what’s keeping the leader of the Thieves Guild awake at night and incapable of doing his job,” she said with blunt disapproval, and Brynjolf felt himself bristle at the thorn-sharp honesty she was always so readily prepared to use. “I’ve suffered tragedies of my own, but I’ve never let loss stop me. I’d expect the same of you, and so would she. She wouldn’t want you to be this way, would she?”

He shook his head wordlessly; he couldn’t trust himself to open his mouth, lest he say something regrettable.

“If you can’t do this, you’ll have to consider stepping down.”

He laughed. “And leave the Guild leaderless?” he asked humorlessly. This was an old argument, one they’d contended over for the past several months, and Karliah was becoming far more insistent in demanding his ability the more the Guild seemed to – yet again – be on the decline. Jobs were few and far between, contacts and clients alike were turning elsewhere, and the coin flowing in was thinning with every week. Brynjolf would hear none of it; Karliah had asked him on the eve of their stay in Riften if he was capable of leading. He’d said yes.

Karliah was eyeing him doubtfully.

“If it means preserving the Guild, so be it,” she countered in a hushed voice, eyeing a patron passing by a little too close for comfort. “But Mercer didn’t leave me in charge – this is your responsibility. And until someone better suited comes along…”

Karliah leaned back and stared at Brynjolf for a long several moments, her grey fingers drumming against the table surface. She intended to continue but stopped, looking past him distractedly. “My mark’s leaving. We can finish this discussion later.”

“Aye,” he answered distantly as the slender elf rose from her seat. Brynjolf turned to look but she was already gone, having vanished into the crowd, a living shadow. He turned back to the table, shaking his head as he reached for his drink, and blinked in surprise at the elderly woman having occupied the opposite chair. He’d not even heard her sit down.

She wore many layers of differently coloured robes, a leather jerkin over the top, and an old amulet of Akatosh dangled from around her sagging neck. They stared at each other for a moment, Brynjolf shocked into silence, while the woman merely gazed at him with tiny eyes nearly sunken into the soft skin of her wrinkly face. Somehow, she seemed very sad.

“Can I help you with something, lass?”

“No, I am well,” the elderly woman answered kindly, her smile nearly lost in the plump loose flesh about her mouth. There was a sharpness to her eyes that felt very young, and Brynjolf was trying to decide if they were brown or green when she unexpectedly said, “I believe you are Brynjolf.”

“Aye,” he confirmed hesitantly and the woman chuckled.

“You have not changed at all, save the lines around your eyes,” she said. “I had not noticed them before. But then again, many things have changed. Everything is different from what I remember. Nothing is quite how it was when I left it. What is the year?”

Brynjolf felt his lip twitch, but he humoured her. “Two o’ three.”

“Of the Fourth Era, I should hope. My mind becomes clouded in recent years; I suspect it is from all I’ve had to remember. It is not easy, being as old as I am. Time just… disappears,” she added with great remorse, then brightened suddenly. “And the Dragonborn? How does she fare?”

Brynjolf felt his heart sink and his face must have shown it because the woman looked as downcast as he felt. “Oh, dear. This is not possible…” she whispered solemnly. She grew distant, gaze bleary and lost. Brynjolf leaned forward and rapped lightly on the table, and she blinked, focusing on him.

“I don’t recall meeting you before, lass. Who are you?” he asked, a hint of demand on his tone.

The old woman shook her head. “Who I am is about as useful as a pocketful of lint. And no, you and I have not met before. This would be the first for us.”

“How do you know me, then?”

“Oh, I forget myself. I’ve something that belongs to you,” she reached down, rifling in the bag clutched on her lap. Brynjolf furrowed his brow as he waited, and tried to keep his foot from tapping. He swore he heard the woman mutter “Patience!” under her breath. At last, she held out her hand, fingers loose about the undisclosed token. Her fingers were cool to the touch as they brushed his palm.

Brynjolf stared at the amulet for several moments. The silver was scratched and faded, the surface polished by innumerable thumbing, one of the jet stones fallen from its facing. The three-pointed star was strung onto a new leather cord, but it was undeniably recognizable. Wordless with bewilderment, he reached beneath the collar of his tunic and withdrew the same pendant, albeit not as mishandled, but precisely a perfect twin. “Where did you find this?” he asked hoarsely.

“Lest it bring you the same luck of the last man who kept it,” she said, rising and adjusting her patterned shawl so it rested over her silver and white-streaked hair, tucked neatly up at the back of her head. She nodded in farewell and edged around the corner of the table, crossing the tavern and exiting the door in a swish of differently-coloured fabrics. Brynjolf made to rise and follow, but his legs suddenly felt very heavy and he remained where he sat, staring blankly at the two matching amulets in his hands.

It was to his knowledge that no one knew of how he’d obtained Gallus’ amulet following the Guild Master’s unfortunate demise. Barely aged ten and deemed “stubborn and troublesome”, he’d been thoroughly certain that someone would have noticed the sigil of leadership having vanished from the middle right drawer of the large desk in the Guild Master’s office. However, if it had been noticed to have disappeared, no one came forth to mention it and Brynjolf hadn’t ever been punished for acquiring his mentor’s amulet. The three-starred silver pendant, set with small jet stones and strung on a black leather cord, had long drawn his admiration; in short, he had taken it for fear that once a new Guild Master rose, Gallus would be forgotten, and he wanted to have something of his as a keepsake to keep the man’s memory alive. With the Nightingale Blade gone and everything of Gallus’ either damaged or burnt, the amulet had been taken just in the nick of time and had dangled from the red-haired thief’s neck ever since.

Climbing the ranks to second in command, just one step short of leadership himself, he had considered many a time handing the amulet as a token of goodwill to Mercer Frey – long before the Guild had fallen into complete ruin, and with it, its leader – and so he’d held onto it. The only person apart from himself who knew about the pendant had been Delvin.

And now Brynjolf stood as Guild Master, struggling to uphold a collapsing organization with fewer confidants than ever before, and he at the lowest point in his life. He nearly tore the damned thing from his neck, for fear it brought more misfortune than anything else. Karliah was right. He didn’t even have it in him to lead…

But the woman – who on Nirn was she? He sat back in the creaking wooden chair and stared hard at the pendant she had given him, trying to unlock its mysteries. He knew he ought to stand and pursue her, to broach her for answers, to help him make some semblance in his frantic mess of a life. But he didn’t have the time to be galivanting around the city, chasing old ladies and bribing them for information with questions that didn’t sound at all sane. Brynjolf sighed heavily and closed his hand around the amulet, pushing past the constant stream of noise in the tavern and reaching for the horn mug; his hand knocked it instead as he misjudged the angle and it fell to the floor with a hollow clatter, spilling dark ale across the cracked tiles. The odd-eyed maid set her tray on the table and knelt, picking up the mug and whipping a cloth from where it was tucked into her apron.

“Very sorry, milord,” she said. “I’ll bring you another straight away.”

“Nay, don’t bother,” he dismissed, offering a hand and bringing her to her feet. Their eyes met. She promptly blushed and looked away, hiding the pink flush of her cheeks. For a moment, Brynjolf felt a wave of nausea and gripped the table for support; it might have been a trick of the candlelight, but she looked so very much like _her_ that it brought his breath to a standstill in his throat. So many times, he’d mistaken women for her; he’d stop in his tracks even for a second glance at their face or to gather their attention, only to be disappointed. And here he was, again to be confronted with all that was unbearable.

Brynjolf knew Eonwe was gone. She was dead, ashes on the wind, her memory less than the presence of a ghost. And yet she remained, haunting him still, as though in death she clung to him frantically, as though he might bring her through the worlds to existence, whole once more. It tore at him, his heart bleeding with the wounds she administered, and for six months he’d dwelled on how much he longed to hold her in his arms and hear her say _something_.

He reached out blindly and gently touched the maid’s shoulder, and she raised her face to him, eyes large with surprise. Her hand lifted, fingers entwining with his, and she quietly led him upstairs so that they might be alone for a time.

Later, when he was alone in the shadows with only his skin and his shame, he knew that there would never, _ever_ be a long enough time to replace all that she had been. It just couldn’t be.

∞

Firelight illuminated one side of her face, gaunt but flushed with blood, her mouth working to speak even as he shouted over her, keeping her silent, accusing her of running headlong into danger without care. “What do you think you are – _immortal?_ That nothing can harm you? You’ve put yourself in danger over _and over,_ and one of these times you’re going to end up dead!” he cried, trying to force sense into her head, even as eyes darkened in anger and sounds of refusal forced between her clenched teeth. He meant to anger her; he wanted her to feel _something_ other than the idiotic recklessness consuming her life.

It meant she was alive.

“You asked me for honesty.” His words were visceral as he forced them out, feeling them burn his throat. “And you wonder _why_ I don’t trust you? I nearly lost you _again_ and it doesn’t seem to _fucking matter_ to you!”

Fire woke in her eyes and vaulting upright, she screamed, “I _am_ sorry! Don’t you _dare_ tell me I’m not!” It stung – no, it _raked_ through bone and sinew to hear the pain dancing on her cry. He didn’t believe her. It hurt most, not believing her. He knew that again and again, she would run into danger and leave him behind, terrified she would emerge beyond hope or be injured too badly or--

The nightmare convulsed upon itself and Brynjolf held her broken body in his arms, her skin ashen and her eyes unseeing, flat with lifelessness. He heard the whisper of her voice, the caressing touch of her ghostly hands, the heartbreaking promise echoing again and again – never to be fulfilled. His throat was raw and yet he begged, rasping through it, “Come back to me, lass. Come back…”

He cradled her close, bowing his head over her form, her weight sagging in his lap, limbs askew, soft fingers numb. He ran his fingers through the remains of her hair, touched the flaking skin, the skin robbed of beauty by death’s pallor. He shook uncontrollably, blind with tears. He longed to hold her closer but knew she would disintegrate, and yet the desire to was too much. He reached for her face, brushing her cheek, heart pounding in his chest as he did.

And watched her fragment to ash, the wind snatching her and pulling her into the air, curling her around him as she was torn away. Stolen from him. Terrorized, he curled inward on himself, his hands caked grey with her remains.


	4. Chapter 4

Thunder rolled through the darkened skies, the constant pelting rain hammering the cobblestone road beneath the grey mare’s steady hooves. Lightning burst, the reek of ozone drenching the rider’s senses as white forks split behind black clouds, and the mare whickered restlessly as she was urged on. Tugging at her hood, Eonwe pulled it down lower in an attempt to shield her eyes from the torrential rains, but it did little good.

The storm had begun shortly after crossing into Whiterun Hold, and had kept up with an infuriatingly cheery determination in an effort to drench her as rapidly as possible and add to her mounting intolerance. In her pocket, tucked within the greased rainproof leathers reeking of troll fat, was a written letter from Isran – the reason for her escapade on a night such as this.

A vampire, preparing an attack on Jarl Elisif the Fair, on the eve of the annual soiree in memory of High King Torygg. It seemed the bloodsuckers could never keep to themselves, and just when things were finally looking up. She internally winced a little at the ignorance in her accusation, not meaning to extend it to _all_ vampires; she had built a friendship with one, after all, in the many months spent traipsing back and forth across Skyrim in an effort to bring the vampire menace to its knees and secure the artefact they so desired.

Another fork of lightning splayed across the sky, reflecting off an exposed hint of the bow slung across her shoulders, beneath the tangled cloak. Auriel’s Bow, its magnificent splendor hardly hampered by the dimness cast by the storm, shining with a brilliance rivalled only by the sun itself. She would have left it under the protection of the Dawnguard, but a piece of her felt some kind of materialistic attachment to the bow; Auri-El, widely known among the Imperial Deity as none other than Akatosh, the Dragon God of Time. _Bormah_ of the _dov_.

And the creator of all Dragonborn.

Paarthurnax might understand the sentiment but then again, dragons were without affection. Love was not a word among them, and they were not the medieval hoarders of treasures in children’s fables, guarding their piles of jewels and gold. To cherish was meaningless to them. Dragons cared for only two things in life: Dominance and power.

In ancient times, the dragons were ruthless and careless of the torture they inflected on the mortals. It was their place to stand above others, and it was their place to demand subjugation. Temples were erected in their names, human men and women bowed to their might, and they were revered as depictions of Akatosh – the chief deity of their religion. The Ancient Nordic Pantheon decreed Alduin himself a representation of the All-Father, the God of Time.

And he was revered as a god-like figure, regardless of whether it be true or not.

Eonwe supposed being human meant these rules didn’t necessarily apply to her. In fact, she didn’t really know _what_ rules applied to her, seeing she was incapable of permanent death… as far as she knew, at least. She hadn’t exactly _tried_ to put that theory to test, but dangers lurked on every next page in her unfolding life, and some blows intended to kill had merely left her briefly maimed.

But the question was _why_.

After waking on the shores of Lake Honrich amidst charred and blackened wood and the heavy thickness of ashes in frigid waters and slick, fire-scorched mud, Eonwe didn’t understand much other than the fact she was alive. Her mind was a mass of confusion and weary understanding. She was cold and hot at the same time, and she couldn’t gather a deep enough breath to clear the confusion fogging her head.

When she’d noticed the scars, it was nearly impossible to look away. Deep gashes, tearing jagged lines across the planes of her stomach and chest. The others could be felt with the cold wind brushing her back, scores shredded into her skin, permanent markings to remember her fight against the World-Eater. Tallies of how many times her life had been threatened. The scars were horrific, the wounds undeniably fatal.

And yet, _she lived_.

But little could she remember of _how_ she could be alive. A miracle? A necromancer’s work? Sheer dumb luck? Eonwe couldn’t be sure if she had perished or not; the remains of the pyre at the lake’s shore suggested she had been cremated. Then how was she whole? Standing! Breathing!

Unless it was a dream. An illusion or a trick. All of it had been one imagined scenario, a nightmare within her head. Maybe she would wake up, find herself beneath the patterned quilts of her childhood bedroom, her mother and father quieting her tears with soft words and reassurances. A nightmare to be soothed and forgotten come morning light.

Eonwe knew better than to believe it wasn’t a dream.

Nudging the mare into a ground-eating lope, she pushed onwards through the storm, forcing her troubling thoughts from her head for the time being. There were more important things to worry about, and the vampires weren’t likely to be keen to renounce their prey.

∞

The Four Shields Tavern’s windows glowed with a warm amber light all too welcoming to pass up on; the skies had cleared and the stars hung in a sea of dark cobalt. Beads of rain dappled the leafy green bushes around the tavern and the smell of wood smoke and home-baked pies drifted through a window cracked for air.

A number of horses bearing shields and travelling gear were tied beneath the small shelter alongside the tavern, and Eonwe stopped to study the whickering and pawing animals. They had been ridden hard, and from the signs of sweat and wet mud still caking their legs and flanks, she supposed they’d arrived only recently. She half-considered pushing the mare the last few miles to the stables at Katla’s Farm, but she wanted to arrive prepared and on schedule. She also had her identity to think of; the Dragonborn had perished on the shores of Lake Honrich for many, and if her survival were to escape into the general public _now_ , it would cause a ruckus she didn’t need.

It was better to remain anonymous.

Upon entering the tavern’s warm embrace, Eonwe picked out the riders immediately from travellers and causally-dressed townsfolk. The millworkers were gathered at a table near one of the fires, their tones of complaint familiar and reassuringly normal. A few visitors lined the tables closest to the bar counter, where a few large fellows were stooped over their drinks in quiet converse there.

The riders took up the back corners of the tavern, gathered around tables cluttered with mead bottles and scraped plates. There were nine of them, men and women of equal brawn, none of them gentle-faced or common visitors. All of them held an edge that made the hair on the back of Eonwe’s neck stand up; these people were travelling, likely from village to village. She caught the eye of one, a fair woman with light red hair and a single eye; the other was damaged, the lower lid sunken, a large gash splitting her face from brow to cheek. The men were hulking shapes with wolf eyes, downing spirits from their flagons with wary gazes over the rims, or simply watching the patrons milling around the tavern.

These were people who could ride for hours, who never flinched at the hiss of an arrow or rasp of steel blade on leather sheathe, who took on the most gruelling of jobs and saw it done. Eonwe kept her face averted and went directly to the counter, not wanting to draw attention to herself.

“Care for a room or somethin’ to eat?” the bar mistress asked as Eonwe approached the counter, nudging between two of the patrons seated there, and placed a small purse of coin down.

“Tea,” she answered quietly, and waited as the bar mistress poured from the kettle into a heavy clay mug. The soothing combination of frost mirriam and elf’s ear was pleasant, and she added a splash of milk when it was nudged her way by one of the counter patrons. He was a heavyset lad with lambchops and a homespun tunic full of holes. Nodding in kind from beneath the cloaking shield of her hood, she began to turn away to claim a chair by the fire and dry out her hair and clothes.

Instead, a broad chest of steel plate, leather, and chainmail crowded in front of her and her eyes flashed up in alarm, seeing a ragged blonde beard braided on either side of a wide, blunt chin. She raised her eyes further, seeing the grim set of a pale-lipped mouth and grey eyes. The mercenary looked down, chilling her with his wintery stare, dabs of blue war paint bringing out the flecks of cerulean in his irises. In the corner of her eye, she saw the heavyset man shifting away, and she was glad she wasn’t the only one offset by the mercenary.

The bar mistress placed a tray of drinks on the counter wordlessly, and Eonwe shrank back as he leaned forward and past her, reaching for the tray. As her eyes dropped, she caught sight of a dark band on one finger, but he was moving away too soon for her to focus in on the design.

Letting go of the breath she’d been holding, she slowly lifted the clay mug of tea with her over to the fire; setting it on the scratched wooden seat, she removed her bow and knapsack, hanging them on the back before taking the weight off her feet and knees. She sipped at the tea but she couldn’t bring herself to content. Something seemed to be tickling at her conscious…

So she watched the riders at their table over the edge of the mug, taking in the small details she’d not noticed before.

The woman she’d made eye contact with first reminded her of Sapphire, if Sapphire were blonde and another ten years older. Her side locks were braided and tucked behind her studded ears, and she wore a red cloth tunic underneath the leather vest with chainmail arms. A hand axe lay on the table near her right hand. She wore gloves, the knuckles reinforced by small iron spikes.

A second woman sat at the other table, adjacent to the men, facing away from Eonwe. A shield was on her back, dented from taking a number of blows, and there was half an arrow still stuck through the wood. The blade at her hip was split down the center, the hilt wrapped with blue strips of fabric. Her armor was padded, head hidden under a leather hood. The insignia of the Stormcloaks adored the shield, the snarling white bear on a field of blue almost faded entirely. The life of a soldier traded for a mercenary’s – were they much different?

The men were mostly Nords, with a single Redguard and Imperial thrown in. The Redguard wore the lightest of gear, thick straps across his chest with ornate buckles that had lost their shine, a linen turban bound around his head. He was all dark-eyed and darker skinned, and he carried both blade and bow. There was a second Redguard, a woman, her long hair in dreadlocks decorated with beads of glass and wood, her eyes a pale jade green. She smiled at something said, her teeth gleaming against her dark lips.

Eonwe watched the Imperial next, with his woodsy brown skin and long, tapering nose. He carried no weapons, save a small dagger thrust through his belt at his waist, but his clothing was cloth and leather. Lightweight and easy to maneuver in. _A mage_ , she supposed.

But the Nords were the most intimidating by far. A native to the distant green realm of Valenwood, Eonwe could see from an outlander’s point of view the barbaric ferocity in the make of their gear. None were without a cleaving axe or serrated longsword, and she saw some with two hilts strapped across their backs. The blend of browns and greys muddled with small dashes of colour; coloured wool here, embroidered cloth there. All wore heavy cloaks in dark shades lined with fur, but none wore smiles. Some were shaven, most were bearded. There was something savage in how they sat, hunched over the tables or their drinks. It occurred to Eonwe late in her observations that they spoke little, if not at all.

She returned to the mercenary with the blue war paint and pale eyes, seeking out the black ring on his finger. It was a gold so dark it seemed black, set with a single onyx gem, polished to smoothness. A chill travelled up her spine as he shifted, as though feeling her gaze, and his hand angled enough to catch the glow of the firelight. The gem, a precise circle, was set into the outline of a four-pointed diamond.

Eonwe inhaled sharply.

It was recognizable to any thief. The symbol was engraved into the cover of _Shadowmarks._ It decorated the white-stone mausoleum, and could be found on the occasional door or lamppost in the major cities. But what’s more, Eonwe knew this ring. She’d seen it before, in close range, before its owner snatched it back with a contemptuous snort. Along the inside of the band, there was an inscription: _Marry me, Ton._

She’d teased the fence about it, in kind, but Tonilia had said nothing. She’d merely slipped it back on and prompted to see what Eonwe had to trade, dropping the subject quicker than a hot-baked potato. It had been more than a year ago, long before she left…

The one-eyed mercenary shifted, gesturing in Eonwe’s direction. She looked down into the clay mug, staring at the dark leaves floating in the milky liquid. It suddenly tasted rancid on her tongue. She gripped the mug harder, willing her skin to stop prickling uncomfortably under their searching glares.

The scraping of several chairs made her glance up to see the mercenaries gathering their cloaks and discarded weapons, preparing to leave. She peered out from beneath the brim of her hood as they left, one by one in a staggered line, shouldering double-bladed axes and hide rucksacks. The tavern seemed bigger, devoid of their presence, and Eonwe set down the clay mug. She fumbled for her bow, chair wobbling as she stood and clamped her fingers around the grip. Her hands were shaking, she noticed. She needed to breathe and the tavern was too stuffy, too thick with smoke and food smells and a wave of nausea struck her. She needed… she needed…

Eonwe needed to see where the mercenaries with Tonilia’s ring were headed.

The cool night air was a relief against her sweating skin, and she stood on the front porch, gazing out at the town. Only a few lanterns not yet put out by the heavy rains lit the road but the night wasn’t dark; the moonlight illuminated the cobblestones, shining wet from the passing rains. A pitter-patter told Eonwe another wave was coming through, and before long, the steady downpour was a hiss.

For a moment, she felt cocooned, shielded from the drumming rain under the thatched roof; she could feel it if only she reached out a hand. Here she was safe in the bubble of dry warmth, watching the raindrops collide with the wooden bannister, exploding into a shower of droplets and scattering on the ground, forming pools that reflected the sky. Look into one and she would see her face, its mirror, smudged with dirt and lined with tire.

She reached up and pressed her fingers to her cheek, feeling the hard bone under a swell of soft pliable skin. Was it her face anymore? The question of her identity remained, and she looked down at her hand, crusted with wounds, its shape the same. Those were the hands that slayed Alduin; those were the hands that had stroked away shed tears; those were the hands that clutched in reckless abandon, grasping blindly in passion. She touched her lips and closed her eyes, feeling the rasp of beard there in memory.

Eonwe realized she had been hearing the voices nearby for a moment longer than she knew, and she felt her heart jolt in her chest as she stepped back into the shadow of the overhanging roof, straining to listen. They were coming from the side of the tavern, tones that were rough and harsh. She inched closer, ears almost deaf with the banging of her heartbeat, fearful of discovery at her eavesdropping.

“…boss isn’t going to be happy. We’ve been scouring the wilderness for weeks, and still no sign of ‘em.”

A thick Nordic accent answered him; it was the woman with the Stormcloak shield. “We cannot return empty handed. Either we find them, or we disappear. You recall how angry she was last time Akiid came home with nothing.”

“Where could’ve they gone? They have nothing.” A horse shied, sidestepping into view, and Eonwe shrank back against the wall. She craned her head forward, and glimpsed the mercenary wearing the black ring. “Boss should’ve sent in more to deal with those rats. Never mind this runnin’ around after shadows.”

“Wuulf, you forget I was there. I made the headcount. Had to deal with one still alive, too,” her voice shuddered in revulsion. “But it was well-fortified. The thieves had that place guarded better than any bandit fort I’ve seen in years.”

Eonwe felt her blood go cold.

Pressing closer to the wall, she shifted just enough to see around the corner, and glimpsed the nine riders adjusting the gear on their horses and preparing to set off. Her mare was at the far end; it lifted its head and snorted, recognizing her, and the one-eyed mercenary glanced her way from where she was adjusting the strap of her horse’s bridle.

Their eyes locked for a heartbeat.

Looking away, Eonwe climbed down the steps and went directly to her horse, eyeballing every mercenary as she walked behind their mounts. A few of them sent sparse glances her way while others focused on the task in front of them; cleaning hooves, stuffing belongings into saddlebags, tightening the straps holding shields and weapons. One of the Nords broke away, headed for the bushes and unlacing his fly. She reached her horse, shaking.

_… had that place guarded better than any bandit fort…_

Eonwe realized she was holding onto the saddle with a white-knuckled grip. The words were rushing through her head like a swollen river, chockfull of debris and dangerous rocks, plummeting along at a speed rivalling a dragon’s flight. She felt nothing, no feeling to betray the churning wildness of her thoughts. She could feel the fire smoldering, hotter and hotter, igniting to a living flame bent on destruction.

_…sent in more to deal with those rats…_

The mare whickered and pulled away, ears flattening against her head as she ran, and the other horses squealed, pawing and kicking out as they grew nervous. Their eyes rolled, showing the whites, and one trumpeted in fear. The others reared, hooves deadly as they lashed at the air. The mercenaries shouted, hands grabbing, seeking to control the crazed beasts.

_…had to deal with one still alive…_

In the sky, thunder growled and the smell of ozone fell heavily. Lightning lit up the night, but Eonwe saw and heard none of it. The storm brewed, black and monstrous, and with a deafening crack of rolling thunder, her fury broke.

The Thu’um peaked, flooding her head, and her sight went red.

∞

Dawn was dewy and golden, filtering through the trees and casting dark grey shadows on the wildflowers of summer tangled amidst the long yellow grass, waving gently in the morning breeze. Birdsong and the mournful call of deer broke the quiet of the morning.

The steady clomping of several hooves on cobblestones announced the arrival of many; the blonde Lioness lead the procession up the hill to the tavern, dark shadows beneath her eyes from a sleepless night. It had taken all but the entire past day to reach Haafingar’s border, and not on favourable terms. She had gathered a handful of her best warriors the moment word had reached her, and the past few hours were a blur.

Dismounting with a grunt, shocks raced up her legs as her muscles stretched and contracted, forced to unwind after hours on horseback. Mjoll tangled the reins in her hand and marched up the hill; she could already smell the acrid reek of burnt flesh on the wind, and tendrils of smoke thickened the blue morning sky.

The horse threw back its head with a shrill cry, pulling away before she could tighten her grip and retain control over the animal. Thundering off the road, she saw the bulks of many horses, carrying the travelling gear still strapped to their sides, grazing on the lush grass overlooking the steep edge of the Karth River. Mjoll ascended the hill and her mouth twisted, bile burning her throat, as the sight of the burning remains came into view.

It was a scene straight of out the deepest pocket of Oblivion. Scorched beyond recognition, they were torn apart limb from limb, skin crisped away to crude examples of the human shape. Many were frozen in agony, their mouth agape, teeth blackened as they cried out to the sky for mercy. Mjoll could taste the hot acid of bile on her tongue, but she forced herself to breathe as she inspected the indistinguishable bodies.

The dragons were gone, their wings having carried them far away to the shores of the distant Atmora. There was no other possible beast who could have created such devastation, and yet here lie nine corpses upon a blackened ground, pale grey ashes smearing the tavern walls, pockets of fire still blazing dimly. Who – or what – could have done this?

The sun was rising higher in the sky when one of the town’s guardsmen brought forward the innkeeper, who had witnessed the massacre. “A person,” she managed to say after much encouragement.

“Did you recognize this person?” Mjoll asked.

The innkeeper shook her head, blank eyes staring at the carnage beyond. “Just… she wanted tea. Geoffrey – one of my regulars – gave her milk to put in it.”

Mjoll asked to see him, and tried to smile kindly when the innkeeper met her eye. She promptly burst into tears and had to be led away by someone – presumably her husband.

Geoffrey had a better hold over himself when he sat down on the tavern steps beside Mjoll, and he ran his fingers through his unbecoming lambchops as he thought. “Very slight, a woman I’m certain,” he said slowly. “I couldn’t see her face for the hood. She wore travelling leathers and carried a bow. It was nothing like I’ve ever seen, all shiny and white. It couldn’t have been cheap.”

It was the most she could get out of him, except for one minor detail he thought necessary. “She wore a ring. Silver, with bitty engravings. It was very old.”

Thanking him for his cooperation, Mjoll ran her hands through her hair and surveyed the town. Dragon Bridge, despite its name, was a relatively quiet place; nothing extraordinary happened here, so the person – a female ranger, by the sound of it – was likely passing through. The road was a massive thoroughfare to Solitude. Were they headed there?

“Lady Mjoll,” one of the warriors approached, a folded note in his hand. “Word for you.”

“Have they spoken?” she asked tiredly, unfolding the paper and skimming her eyes over the hastily written words. She was on her feet and summoning her warriors, and she whistled sharply for her horse. A buzz of excitement filled her belly.

“What does it say, milady?”

“We’re needed back at the fort,” Mjoll said, folding the parchment and tucking it into a pocket. “It’s a matter of urgency.”


	5. Chapter 5

The lone traveller pushed open the door to Windpeak Inn, her drawn hood shielding her identity from the view of the patrons hunched around the few round tables scattered in the main upper hall of the inn. Her gaze was drawn to the steel-wearing mercenary in the back corner, her light red hair bound with a bit of red-and-white striped cloth. The mercenary rose a hand in confirmation, and the traveller approached, taking the opposite chair. Drawing back her hood and letting her winter-blonde hair tumble free, Vex eyed the mercenary in wary interest.

She was a pretty girl, a few years younger than her and as white as snow, freckles splattering her high cheekbones and narrow face like blood drops. The steel was well looked after, a few dings and scratches in the metal, but secure and protective. A spiked hammer was strapped to her back, and a dagger was thrust through her belt.

“You’re Vex, then?” the mercenary asked, speaking with a slight lisp. One of her teeth were crooked, likely the reason for her speech impairment, though she was perfectly understandable. “I’m Zora.”

“I was told you could give me information,” Vex said, placing a large purse of gold on the table between them. The mercenary licked her lips hungrily, eyeing the purse at its obvious appeal, and Vex smiled coldly. “There’s more where that came from. I’m willing to pay any price, provided we can come to an agreement.”

“I’ll give you what you want, thief, but it’s not just gold I’m after,” Zora leaned forward. “I know your kind. And I’ve heard of the contracts some of you lot have been collecting. Don’t see many thieves out in the field, except for you.”

“The thieving business hasn’t been doing well lately,” Vex explained dismissably. “I’ve had to take a few chances and… throw a few stones, if you will. But,” she added hastily. “I’m no freelancer. I’m not for hire.”

Zora nodded. “Another time, then. The Lioness has a number of hideouts all across the province, most of them dominating The Pale, The Rift, and out in Falkreath. She uses some of the towers as prisons, and the forts are where her people stay between contracts.”

“Who does Mjoll work for?”

The mercenary’s brows arched high on her forehead. “Herself. She was always the leading type. She and I worked together a few years ago, before Mzinchaleft. I was supposed to meet her to take down some high-and-mighty lord on the Hammerfell border. She never showed. I only learned of her whereabouts when she became Thane of Riften.”

“You never approached her?” Vex inquired.

“It was more pay for me,” Zora shrugged. “I’d met her only briefly before. Scary woman up close. She’s tough as nails, and has a mind for strategizing. Obsessed with righteousness and all that bull.”

“How did you find out about her hideouts?”

“I started tracking her. I don’t have much to do between contracts, and half of the places I went by were occupied by mercenaries like myself. I did a little digging in my spare time, and it turns out Ra’zhani, a friend of mine, joined up with her people after they attacked the Thieves Guild.” Zora chuckled. “Zhan once said he was going to give up the mercenary business and take up thieving, but by the time he dropped his contacts and went rogue, they were already…” she paused, frowning. “Sorry, I’m not very tactful when it comes to… these things.”

“It’s in the past,” Vex flicked a hand. “Can you tell me where I can find your friend?”

“Zhan? I haven’t spoken to him recently, but he was last headed to Fort Dunstad – that’s one of their main bases of operation,” she said. “I’d check there. Tell him I sent you. He’ll be less inclined to take your head off that way.”

Seeming to sense their meeting had reached its end, Zora reached for the coin purse. Faster than a blur of motion, Vex brought her dagger down, the tip catching the edge of the mercenary’s sleeve and pinning her hand to the table. Zora glanced up, startled. “Was there something else?”

“If you’ve been dishonest with me…” she warned, but Zora raised her other hand, shaking her head.

“I might work as a mercenary for a living, but my word is true,” she reassured. “I will warn you though: Fort Dunstad is heavily guarded. Getting in might be fine, but they won’t be inclined to let you leave. I’d go with you, but I damn well know that isn’t any assurance you’ll trust me. I’m not asking for your trust,” Zora added. “But I am giving you the information you wanted. I know what it’s like to be led along into a trap.”

Vex pulled the dagger free from her sleeve and subsequently the wood of the table, a shallow gouge left behind, sheathing the small blade at her waist. She stood to leave, and Zora rose with her, holding something out. It was a piece of cloth, with a squiggly drawing on it. “Give it to Zhan and tell him I said ‘sand in winter bears no warmth’. He’ll make sure you get out.”

Vex closed her hand around the fabric.

∞

Nilheim was quiet.

Karliah knew better than to assume the tower was unguarded. Blanketing herself in the Cloak of Shadows, its magic coating her skin and leaving her a moving ripple hovering over the ground, she silently dealt precise shots to every mercenary from the tower’s base to its top.

One mercenary, who had taken a misjudged arrow to a sore point in the chest, raised his hands in pleading as Karliah stepped out of the darkness and strode towards him, her dagger in fist. “Please, don’t kill me!” the mercenary exclaimed in fright. The Nightingale brought her hand down in a sweep, blade slicing the mercenary’s throat as she went by, and she was halfway up the stairs before the body thudded to the floor.

She was here for information – anything she could find. It had been by pure luck she’d found some of Mjoll’s men traversing the countryside, and she’d pursued them on foot for two days in cover of darkness and the rainstorms that had blown through. In the forests at the edge of Whiterun’s plains, she had overheard them mention Nilheim.

After leaving their corpses in the mouldy leaves around the campfire, she’d turned south and travelled into the eastern heart of The Rift. She left no trail and slept only when necessary, in the branches of a tree or in a crofter’s attic. She’d done worse in the past, sometimes hardly finding the peace to sleep at all, terrified she’d left a clue to those pursing her and would wake in her last heartbeats to find the dull gleam of a Dwemer blade resting against her throat.

Sometimes, she still expected to find Mercer Frey there, returned from the grave to kill her in revenge for his death.

She hadn’t yet forgiven herself for all the years she accused the man of murdering both Dralsi Indoril and Gallus Desidenius. Once she had intervened and the other she’d not, but the blame fell to her. It had been her responsibility, as a Nightingale and as a person, to protect the people she loved. She’d failed on not just two, but twice that, in her inability to uphold her title as a protector.

Gallus could have lived, if she’d only trusted him. Dralsi would have lived, if she had agreed to exchange places with her that fateful, _horrible_ day instead of remaining in her lover’s bed. Mercer might have never become the tyrant Nocturnal twisted him into, if only she had believed Gallus would bring him back from the brink of desperation. And Eonwe…

Eonwe would have never died if Karliah had been there to convince Brynjolf to not let her leave, or to say to her those words herself. Dragonborn or not, she had been her closest friend in near thirty years, the first woman she’d chosen to trust. Karliah knew she couldn’t have done it alone for much longer, and when the first flame of hope presented itself, she’d grasped it with both hands regardless of the burns.

And Eonwe had died because of it. She’d died because she realized the value of being a hero, of protecting those she loved. Karliah had spent years fighting the same battle, trying to right the wrongs with her own two hands. Eonwe had done the same. And now she was gone.

Karliah had been her friend, her confidant, her ally. Her fellow Nightingale. She blamed herself for letting her die.

And now she struggled to hold the Thieves Guild together; it, on its last vestiges, hung onto every coin and every contact. She refused to see it fall, not again, not for a second time. She would hold it upright, as she had promised to do for thirty years of her life, even if it was the death of her. She would go willingly, to keep Gallus’ legacy and honour the memory of those who’d fallen in its name. She wouldn’t be to blame if the Thieves Guild’s end was near.

She refused to be the reason for another loss.

A thorough search of the tower found her a hidden trunk stashed beneath a faded banner shoved under an enchanting desk. Hauling it out into the open, Karliah picked open the lock securing the lid and flung the lid open. A number of things stared back at her – rolled parchment, faded leather-bound journals, books with yellowed pages, and other materials of little value. Karliah flipped through some, finding nothing necessarily of interest, until she discovered a curious packet-shaped bump inside the lining of the trunk.

Using her dagger to pick open a few stitches, she slid her hand in, palm flat, and felt something papery against her fingertips. Drawing it free, she found herself staring at a letter, its seal broken. It was obviously very important, seeing the pains to hide it carefully had been taken.

Unfolding the letter, she began to read.

∞

Vex reached Fort Dunstad by way of the back of a horse-drawn cart full of mead barrels. She sat in the back beneath the burlap covering, peering through a gap in the side as the wintery wonderland slid by at brisk pace. The cart stopped only twice, once so the driver could eat a packed lunch and relieve himself, and the second at a checkpoint. The cities had doubled their guard after the vampire attacks, and now people had to be questioned and identified when travelling along the main roads.

It was needless to say the thieves didn’t use the main roads anymore.

It was at the checkpoint she was very nearly seen, but luckily the guards had an air of boredom, and only poked around the barrels a bit before letting the carriage pass on through. It was likely near the end of their shift; Vex confirmed this when they passed two new city guard on horseback, headed for the spot.

She abandoned her ride once Fort Dunstad came into view around a bend in the road, and she slipped off into the trees, observing the military fort’s high stone walls and lookout towers. It wasn’t incredibly large, but outward appearances could be deceiving, and it would take both time and caution to find Ra’zhani without being seen. Vex hoped that if on the out chance she _was_ caught, these mercenaries were the ask-questions-first-before-maiming kind.

Finding a way in was simple enough; she traversed one of the lookout towers and jumped over the wall. She landed behind a large structure suitable enough to be a tavern or a small inn. She peered through one of the frosted windowpanes, counting five mercenaries hunched around the center table playing cards. One of them, with his back to the window, had a long brindled tail and tufted ears. A Khajiit.

Making sure the coast was clear, Vex straightened her spine and walked to the front of the tavern, and opened the door. A mercenary glanced up with a half-bored, half-irritated expression, before doing a double-take and dropping his cards in favour of reaching for his sword. All of the mercenaries were on their feet before Vex could utter a word, and she lifted her hands in surrender as one snagged her hood and steered her toward the table.

“I’m here to see Ra’zhani,” she said before they could tie her wrists and begin asking questions. The mercenaries paused, looking to where the Khajiit stood nearby with a dagger in his hands.

Ra’zhani stepped around in front of her and snatched her chin in his fingers, tilting her head back to better see her face. His orange eyes flicked over her face, wariness giving into confusion. “This one is unfamiliar,” he hissed, lifting his dagger to the exposed line of her neck. “Who sent filthy Imperial spy?”

Vex sighed. It was always the same with these ones. “Your friend Zora, dimwit,” she snapped. “Check my top pocket. She gave me something to prove I’m telling the truth.”

Ra’zhani gestured to one of the mercenaries to obey her instruction, and the folded bit of fabric was withdrawn. She saw the flash of surprise in the Khajiit’s eyes as he lunged for the scrap, delicately handling it in his hand as he unfolded it. “Zora,” he murmured. “Did she say anything else, spy?”

“Yeah. ‘Sand in winter bears no warmth’. Does it mean something to you?”

Ra’zhani scowled, tucking the piece of fabric into his pocket, and motioned for everyone to lower their arms. Vex stood and cocked an eyebrow when he didn’t speak. He shook his head, and began to leave the tavern’s dim interior. “Follow,” he ordered.

Blinking as she grew reconditioned to the brightness of outdoors, Ra’zhani turned to her. “Zora is right. This one bears warmth no longer. Skyrim is a cruel, harsh land, and it is reflected in Ra’zhani,” he said regretfully. “But this one does not forget his friendship with Zora. How may Ra’zhani be of assistance?”

Both of Vex’s brows flew up to her hairline. Was it really this simple? There had to be a catch, obviously, but for now she was going to take what she could get. “Mjoll has a friend of mine locked up in one of your towers, and I want him back.”

“Defying the Lioness will not be an easy task, but you are lucky you came to Ra’zhani,” he said, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Bannermist Tower, Snowpoint Beacon… those are places we hold prisoners.”

Vex dug in her pocket for coin to pay in thanks for the information, but Ra’zhani stopped her with a raised hand. “No need to pay Ra’zhani. This one has all he needs,” he gestured to the pocket bearing the precious bit of fabric from Zora. “May the road lead you to warm sands, friend.”

∞

_(An excerpt from Karliah’s journal):_

_I found the locations where Mjoll has established her hideouts. I must return as soon as possible with the news. I have been forced to make a detour around Dragon Bridge, as some sort of incident occurred there recently and the road has been closed until further investigation. I heard someone mention a dragon… I’d best be on my guard._

_I’m concerned about Brynjolf. I’m more concerned about Erikur. I don’t have reason to believe Brynjolf is capable of leading the Thieves Guild. He made a fine leader in the past, but ever since Eonwe died, I doubt his strength. Erikur will undoubtedly use this to his advantage, and that puts us all in danger. We need to be cautious, now more than ever._

_I miss Eonwe. She was reliable and stubborn – not too different from me. I don’t wish it, but if it were her in Brynjolf’s place, I do think she would be more interested in preserving what remains of the Thieves Guild. She held a great love for everyone, if not what it stood for (she was never a thief at heart) but she would understand the weight of responsibility. She loved Brynjolf as much as I loved Gallus, but she and I were of a like mind. I never let loss stop what needed to be done._

_Perhaps this is wishful thinking. It doesn’t matter now._

_Solitude is not far. I’d best pack up camp and make use of this fair weather. It might be muddy, but if I go cross country, I should be in the city by midafternoon at best. Once Brynjolf is aware of Mjoll’s hideouts, he might be more inclined to step up to his responsibilities and take action on restoring what little we have left._

∞

The watchman saw a dark horse on the horizon, loping along the well-ridden trail through the heavy white powder. He leaned over the side of the lookout tower, cupping his hands around his mouth as he shouted, “Open the gate. Lady Mjoll has returned!”

The gates heaved open in time to allow the rider and horse charge through, where the great beast skidded to a halt, blowing heavily through its nostrils. It’s chest and flanks were white with sweat. Mjoll dismounted from the animal’s back and handed the reins off to one of her men, an Imperial, demanding his report.

“It is _most_ urgent, Lady Mjoll. While you were travelling to Dragon Bridge, we discovered another thief lurking around the tower’s exterior. We know not who she is, only that it seems her intention was to free Mallory.”

“And where is she now?” Mjoll demanded, entering the tower and descending the spiralling steps to the dungeon below. She didn’t bother to remove her cloak or return Grimsever to its sheath across her back; she instead clutched the hilt in a white-knuckled grip, excitement glowing in her vengeful eyes.

“She is chained. We have tried every method you instructed to have her relinquish information on the whereabouts of the Thieves Guild, but we’ve had no luck. I saw the letter personally sent within the first hour of her discovery.”

“You’ve done well, Achilles,” Mjoll offered a quick smile of appreciation to the Imperial. They reached the dungeon and Achilles stooped to unlock the many deadbolts in the massive door. It squealed loudly as it opened, grinding on its rusted hinges, and Mjoll entered the dim prison.

It was darker than a daedra’s heart in the prison, excepting the single brazier against the wall, throwing a golden glow into the gloom. The air was thick with the stench of drying blood and filth, and mouldy straw littered the floor. A rat squeaked somewhere, the pitter-patter of its feet abruptly vanishing.

In the cell was the slender form of a pale-skinned woman. Her arms were chained by the shackles in the ceiling and she rested her weight on her thigh, slumped over in exhaustion, her head hanging.

“Open the cell,” Mjoll told Achilles.

The iron gate swung inward and the Lioness entered, taking the woman by the hair and pulling her head back. She made a vicious sound, twisting and fighting, her voice wordless and irate.

“The wildcat,” Mjoll smirked, recognizing the light-haired thief. “Plant a bit of bait and out she comes. I knew I’d be seeing you again.”

“Is that so?” Vex hissed, spitting a globule of blood on the dirty stone.

The Lioness laughed in bitter triumph. “Did you truly believe Zora and Ra’zhani would betray me?” she crooned mockingly. “Two of my best. Zora Hawk-Cry is one of my oldest friends and top agents. Ra’zhani came from one of the worst prisons in Elsweyr. I paid handsomely for the likes of him, and he owes me a debt far grander than a matter of coin. I knew they would sent you to me, fool.”

Mjoll leaned closer, a grin on her face. “You thought you were so close, didn’t you? The greatest infiltrator of her kind is no more than a brainless idiot, chasing clues she thought led to something. Though I must compliment you,” she added. “Out on your own, bending the rules to find me and bring me down. You betrayed your own people to do what no one else wouldn’t dare try. But I assure you,” she said, “one by one, I will have all of you under this tower, and you will rot like the filth you are.”

The thief’s eyes were liquid gold murder.

“Achilles, do me a great favour and lose the key,” Mjoll ordered, smirking as she left the cell. “Our friend will be staying here for a long, long time.”

“You won’t find us,” Vex gloated, her voice shaking with the effort to remain conscious. “You can try, _bitch_ , but you won’t.”

“I find it terribly sad,” Mjoll said, “you feel the need to comfort yourself with lies. Did you think you and Mallory are the only ones I have locked away?” Mjoll laughed as Vex writhed against the shackles, unable to contain a gasp as the metal bit into her wrist and dripped a trickle of blood down the snowy flesh of her arm. “You will break… eventually. Achilles, send for the torturer. It’s time we changed our methods.”


	6. Chapter 6

The first light of dawn lit the sky with streaks of gold and faded blue, a ball of fire cresting the deep blue horizon of the Sea of Ghosts on the far northern horizon, where the desolate forgotten land of Atmora reigned in silence. A few ships were black on the water, and small boats and fishing vessels bobbed in the harbour. The docks were already unfurling with life, as the constant stream of shipments from west and east reached the warehouse beneath the great stone arch.

Across the channel, the marches were consumed by a bleak silver mist, shrouding its secrets – and its dreadful inhabitants. Crickets and frogs sang in the swampy combination of algae and lily pads, and larger creatures that chittered and buzzed swarmed the murky pools and black streams.

Thankfully, it was not that direction Eonwe was headed, and she reined her mare to a halt outside of the stables. A few grizzled nags whickered at her approach, and their riders offered a good-natured welcome as they themselves mounted up and set off into the light of the rising run. A wagon turned past, wheels bouncing on the uneven cobbles, laden with a dozen large barrels; the sharp smell of honey-laced mead filled the air pleasantly, along with the earthier musk of the horses. She glanced at the sky as she started up the hill; there were no rainclouds to be seen, and the morning air – though still very cold – had a subtle warmth to it, promising clear weather. A welcome sight indeed.

Eonwe couldn’t recall the last time she’d been to the province’s capital, but it was relatively unchanged, for the most part. A swift glance found innumerable red banners and propaganda posters plastered to every wall from the main gates to the Blue Palace itself, and there were several more city guard and soldiers walking both the roads most travelled, and those less so. Every way she looked, there were people – and many of them – as they poured from the shops and bickered for the best sale in the markets.

The atmosphere was exciting; it seemed the city drew its strength from the war efforts. Eonwe didn’t know how the Civil War was turning; when the peace treaty had been formed prior to her journey to Sovngarde, with both sides agreeing to a brief hiatus, it was now rather clear the warring had resumed the moment knowledge of the World-Eater’s downfall – along with the Dragonborn’s demise – had reached the general public. She’d not been blind to the fields soaked in blood, blanketed corner to corner by the desecration of conflict; she’d not been deaf to the conversations in less conspicuous inns and taverns during her travels to stop the Tyranny of the Sun, where assassins roamed in their relentless effort to sabotage the side they fought against. War was a dirty thing; there was no glory in battle, only life and death – and generally more of the latter.

And Eonwe was no fool. She was aware there was never peace for very long – not in these times, and not in this world.

After a quick visit by the local smithy to sharpen her sword and mend the ripped lace of a bracer, she took a turn around the city, looking for any signs of vampire activity. It would be easier to find them, she thought, to search around dusk or even into nightfall – but she wasn’t here to kill them outright – not yet, at least – or, and far worse, scare them off. Moving around in daytime gave her the opportunity to familiarize herself with the setting and, considering her nightly activities were due at the Blue Palace, she figured she would head there and have a quick search about.

The palace was open and allowing citizens to pay their respects to High King Torygg, in gifts of flowers or ornamental tokens. She plucked a few flowers outside the palace walls and dropped them into one of the offering bowls, listening to others speaking sympathetic or grieving words to the large carved bust of the fallen king at the foot of the stairs. Waiting until they left, one having to be led away with a hand on their shoulder, Eonwe approached the bust and looked at it. It was about twice the size Torygg might have been, carved from a chunk of white marble flecked with gold mica, polished so it reflected the sconce lights. The face was handsome and serene, a crown of cast gold upon his high brow, his blank eyes staring out emotionlessly.

Eonwe recalled him from the Hall of Valour, where he had laughed and drank alongside Jurgen Windcaller and the legendary Ysgramor. She thought to inform Elisif – give the widow some peace of mind, to know her husband was at rest without grievance.

“Welcome, traveler,” a gentle voice spoke behind her and Eonwe turned to come face to face with Jarl Elisif the Fair. The widow was very pretty, her skin flawless and her smile dainty, her eyes sparkling as brightly as the clusters of jewels on her fingers and throat. She was perhaps as young as Eonwe, the lines around her eyes and mouth much too faint, but present from mourning. She wore a well-trained smile – one that was deceiving and practiced in years of etiquette classes. “I thank you for coming to my husband’s memorial. Will you be joining the party tonight?”

Eonwe matched her smile. “I would be honoured, Lady Elisif.”

The smile on the young jarl’s face faltered for an instant and she tilted her head to one side, golden hair falling over one slender shoulder, garbed in the finest linen and embroidered with fine golden thread. “You have a familiar face, traveler. Have we met before?”

She could imagine she didn’t quite look like herself, and though it wasn’t intentional of her, the last six months had been spent on the road. The last she recalled of her face was reflected in the vast surface of the frozen lake hidden deep in the Forgotten Vale; tanned from exposure, her freckles standing out darker against her cheeks, she had lost the fair pallor attained from many months underground in the cistern.

It had been this pale visage presented to Elisif around the table during the peace treaty, her cheeks flushed from either the cold outside the solid stone walls of High Hrothgar, or perhaps from the blazing heat of the fire between Ulfric Stormcloak and General Tullius as they tugged back and forth for control over Skyrim.

They had spoken little, but Elisif – along with half of the other jarls and important figureheads of the province – knew who she was and, more than likely, of her supposed “death”.

But they had first met at the Thalmor Embassy when Eonwe still a naïve young woman unfamiliar with the people of the province and accidentally identified Elisif as merely another in attendance and not one of the respected jarls. Eonwe knew the moment Elisif connected two and two together from the slight twitch of her well-groomed brows.

“Dragonborn. I did not expect… but we heard of your fall against the World-Eater? How is it possible…?” her voice trailed as she was lost for words.

“Fate had other plans,” Eonwe answered solemnly. She didn’t have a better answer than that. “I am glad to see you are well, milady. Solitude seems more prosperous than ever.”

“Quite. Our militia found recent success in their last battle. Several of the old forts have been recaptured. We are doing our best to see Skyrim protected at all corners of the map,” she said. “It is only the best we can do, after all you’ve achieved for us.”

“I only did what needed to be done. Nothing more.”

“Why, you are most humble. You give yourself so little credit,” Elisif sighed. “But I know what you mean.”

This gave Eonwe pause. “…I don’t follow.”

“It is something to be appreciated, when you are unrecognized. I am a symbol of power in Skyrim. Sometimes I wish to shed that responsibility, and I imagine you wished the same once,” Elisif sighed. “Listen to me betray my most inner desires, and to a stranger no less! Today has been a… difficult day. You know how it is.”

It was such a throw-away line, a careless comment, and yet Eonwe felt such a bond to the young jarl before her. She knew the weight of a title, and how impossibly frustrating it was to hold up to it. She knew how Elisif felt and offered a real, true smile. Elisif saw it and returned it, no false friendliness in her eyes. For a moment, they were merely equals, two women sharing a moment where they could be _themselves_ , and not something else.

“Lady Elisif, if I might be at liberty to speak,” Eonwe began tentatively, and the jarl nodded, her attention undivided. “I fear for your safety tonight. The palace will be very busy and… and I have reason to believe there is danger--”

“There are dangers everywhere, my friend,” she said, raising a hand slightly, to quiet Eonwe. “I am protected from assassination attempts every day. I do not fear for my life, but I know it is constantly balanced on a string. It is a fact, that being a person of power always means someone else is out there to destroy you. The same goes for anyone. There are thieves everywhere, of priceless gems and lives alike, and they would make targets of us all.

“Do not think me ignorant,” Elisif concluded, and though her words were firm, her eyes were soft. “But I do appreciate you warning me. I will treat tonight as I would no other. Be well, my friend. I will see you at the party tonight.”

∞

Brynjolf stepped beneath the eaves and rapped on the door lightly with his knuckles, knocking harder when no one bothered to answer. He was well aware of the several maids in Erikur’s service, but as a full half hour crept by, pulling the yellow orb of the sun across the blue sky with it, he began to reach a point well past impatience.

His intent to send the door swinging on its hinges, regardless of its ramifications, dissipated abruptly as a series of high-pitched giggling on the other side distracted him, and he startled as the door was opened quite suddenly. A woman wearing little more than a handkerchief for a dress with her red curls loose around her shoulders startled at Brynjolf’s towering presence in the doorframe, and she giggled again, pulling up the front of her dress and ducking past him.

Erikur, wearing a loosely-tied silk robe and a lazy smile, invited Brynjolf in. The air smelled heavily of the lass’ perfume and sex, and he heaved a long sigh as he followed the thane into the sitting room, where he was presently pouring a glass of wine. “Can I offer you a drink? I have plenty,” he casually gestured to the mantle, laden with bottles of every size and colour. One unmarked vial, hidden behind the whiskey, was clearly poison. Only either a dim-witted fool would not recognize it or leave it in full view of his guests – unless the idea was intimidation. Either was, it wasn’t having the effect Erikur obviously desired.

“Let’s get directly to business,” Brynjolf suggested plainly, not taking a chair when Erikur seated himself, legs thrown wide and body lax. “Do you have the skooma?”

“No, not yet. But don’t you worry there, Bryn,” he grinned patronizingly. “I won’t have the Guild Master of the Thieves Guild thinking I’m not pulling my end of the bargain. I’ll have it as soon as my contact purchases it from my provider.”

“Cutting it a bit close, don’t you think? This is an illegal import, Erikur. I don’t think you realize the implications of if one of us is caught--”

“I understand the implications perfectly, Brynjolf.” Erikur narrowed his eyes in annoyance. “What I don’t think you seem to understand is how in poor a position your organization is. Without my support, you have no ground to stand on. Which is why I’ve given you so many chances and opportunities to rebuild.”

There was no arguing over it. If Erikur wanted it done a certain way, it had to be done that way. “When can I expect for it to arrive?” he finally asked, feeling the weight of the job grow even heavier – and even more dangerous.

“I must attend Elisif’s little soiree tonight with Bryling and the others. I will have the Balmora Blue then, and I can hand it over when you arrive.”

“The Blue…? But the palace will be swarming with the city guard. There’ll be eyes every--”

“I will meet you at the library,” Erikur rose from his seat and straightened his robe. He stopped suddenly, turning to him with a hard look. “If you’re incapable of completing the job, I can always find other people to do my work for me. I’m a businessman, plain and simple. I expect results, and I pay handsomely when my contacts bring me those results on a silver platter.

“The Guild would do well to have me at its side. Maven Black-Briar was wise to have you protecting her mead industry, but now you work for me, and I expect the same loyalty,” he said. “I can open many doors for your people, Brynjolf. I can also keep them closed. How many of those doors open rests on tonight. I’ll see you there.”

∞

As amicable as it seemed, the soiree was all very theatrical; not one soul was present for the late High King Torygg but rather for their own schedules. Behind smiling lips were teeth prepared to bite if their silver tongues didn’t hold sway in conversation; concealed within ornate masks of jewel-encrusted porcelain were selfish eyes searching for any moment of weakness, in which they would lay their elegantly-disguised trap and snare their unsuspecting prey.

Parties like ones such as this were known to attract the wealthy and widely-known; Balgruff and Proventus Avenicci were within the crowd, mid-conversation with the newly-appointed Jarl of Dawnstar Brina Merilis, her trusted Thane Horik at her side, garbed in his military gear, polished to shining silver. On the other side of the parlour was the steward with his fiery beard, not far from Elisif herself, where she conversed with some unfamiliar faces.

Adjusting the knotted ribbon of her mask and taking a couple deep breaths, Eonwe straightened her spine and strode into the foray, head held high. It was essential she play her cards right and appear as no less than some ordinary guest at the party, lest the vampires notice something was awry and alter their plans. It was imperative she remained focused, attentive, and allow any events of the evening to play out naturally – with one exception, of course – but ultimately without her intervening too much in other matters, if at all.

Smoothing her hands over the front of the heavy wool dress, decorated with overlapping leather worked into the shape of scales, she accepted a cup of spirits and occupied one of the slender columns, her eyes searching the foyer as she blindly sipped the potent liquid. It would be difficult to recognize the noticeable signs of vampirism in those adorned in masks – red patchiness surrounding the eyes and mouth, bloodshot eyes, the glint of a fang exposed above smiling lips. Would the vampires have chosen to disguise themselves, or were they the pale faces passing by already?

It was easier to recognize an assassin among so many.

Eonwe set aside the cup, not wanting her focus swayed by alcohol, and started for the staircase. A handful of masked ladies stood there, gossiping about unimportant little scandals. “Vittoria is just looking for another reason to attract attention to herself,” one of the ladies was saying. “Just because she’s the Emperor’s cousin doesn’t mean she _is_ the Emperor.”

“Who was it she was courting? One of the Snow-Shods?”

“The eldest son. In fact, he’s now the _only_ child of the family,” the first lady said. “The daughter was killed in the war, by the Imperials. What’s even stranger is the Snow-Shods are supporters of the rebels, not the Empire!”

“How scandalous! Why not choose the Battle-Borns in Whiterun? They’ve made it clear of their falling out with the treacherous Grey-Manes.”

“Rumour is,” one of the ladies dropped her voice to a whisper, still loud enough to be heard by Eonwe, only a few paces away on the far side of the staircase. “The oldest of the Battle-Borns is having a secret affair with the youngest Grey-Mane! And so soon after they were accused of the disappearance of Thorald Grey-Mane.”

It was here in the conversation Eonwe ascended the stairs and slipped amidst the warm, perfumed bodies gathered in small groups or standing in quiet pairs, talking amicably. It was merely politics – boring stuff, really – and Eonwe kept one eye on Solitude’s jarl as she drifted further through the maze of bejewelled necks and silver-adorned fingers.

It was in the confines of the library, with its high shelves stacked with hundreds of tomes between stained glass windows, where she heard whispers of the black market and forged documents, trade secrets and political nonsense. These were the conversations heard in the corners of taverns or the back alleys of cities, where the thieves made their highway and the beggars made their homes – out of sight, unnoticed and secret. There was an allure in the conversations, a reminiscent indulgence, and Eonwe was struck suddenly by a lonesome wistfulness.

It was an easy trap to fall into, melancholy. Paarthurnax had spoken so, as he recollected the memories of the days of the ancient time he’d originated from, where power existed for the taking and the world belonged to his brethren. Instead, it was homesickness Eonwe was struck by, and she could have closed her eyes right there and believed she was in the Ragged Flagon, listening to the thieves in their cistern. She silently berated herself, angry for losing focus so easily, and made for the library door, seeking the solitude of the hall where she could breathe and think properly.

Instead, she tripped on her rushing feet and collapsed into the frame, stubbing a finger painfully and hearing the crunch of a joint as she caught her fall with one hand. She heard a sound nearby – for bloody sakes, she was attracting too much attention! – and her face flushed red behind the cold porcelain as a hand graced her elbow, large and warm. She smelled the heavy musk of spirits and the softer spiciness of masculinity, and her hand reaching out for balance closed around a sleeve of dark blue velvet. Her eyes fixed on a ring the man wore – bronze, engraved with Dwemer lettering, and set with a shimmering blue stone.

The ring she’d left at Honeyside.

Why was it here?

A voice spoke in concern and time slowed the same moment her heart became a fluttering bird in her chest. Her head lifted, seeing starched linen and clean lines, eyes raising to see the face that belonged with his achingly familiar brogue, all the while her mind screaming in panic as she saw the russet beard – no, _no_. It couldn’t be him. It _couldn’t_ be--

“Brynjolf! There you are!” Thane Erikur drew up alongside Eonwe and clapped a hand to the Nord’s shoulder with a brilliant white smile; she flinched, startled, dropping her eyes and drawing back a pace, placing a safe distance between them lest he recognize her. She hid her throbbing hand behind her back, wrapping her thumb around the dislocated finger and squeezing hard. The joint popped back into place and she jumped, pursing her lips tightly.

“I was starting to think you wouldn’t show,” Erikur went on, completely oblivious to her presence. “At least I had the serving girls to keep my interest. Did you just arrive or…?” His blue eyes switched to Eonwe at this point, visibly skipping past her face and looking instead at the exposed tops of her breasts above the wide plunging neck of the dress.

“My, my! Did I interrupt you from the attentions of this _lovely_ lady? Thane Erikur, a pleasure to make your acquaintance, madam.”

He presently offered his hand in greeting and Eonwe, with little choice, allowed him to take her good hand and press his lips to the back of it. She shivered involuntarily, forcing herself to keep from wiping it on her skirts when it was released. She kept her mouth closed shut and stole a glance at Brynjolf again, taking in the little details she’d not noticed at first glance.

His eyes were glazed with drink and sunken into darkly-tinted pouches, no doubt from lack of sleep, and he looked gaunt up close. She felt a rush of regret, knowing it was partly her fault. Her throat closed before she could bring herself to speak; words would make no difference now, and knowing who she was behind the mask held no refuge – only unanswerable questions and further pain.

Bowing her head in farewell, she stepped around both men and walked down the hall. She moved quickly, to hide how her knees were buckling. She held her breath and inhaled shallowly through her nose, to keep her teeth from chattering. And she kept her head held high, to hold the tears brimming along her lashes, lest they fall.

She was so close, so _utterly close_ , and she couldn’t even say a word to let him know she was alive.

∞

“As promised,” Erikur said, pressing the small bottle into Brynjolf’s hand and guiding him down the hall with a hand on his back. “Leave it in the first mate’s cabin and report back to me once it’s done. I’ll manage the rest. Do not screw this up,” he added warningly.

“Aye.” His hand closed around the bottle, and he parted ways with Erikur, returning to the main hall. There was no need to stay any longer.

Dropping the bottle into his pocket, he descended the stairs and walked out into the night, where a light rain had begun to fall. On his way out the gate, he bumped carelessly into a sliver of darkness, and mumbled an apology. The man was dressed in a very fine black doublet, each silver buckle sparkling like a tiny star. He wore a ring on one of his long white fingers, a ruby cut into an unfurling rose and set in a cluster of silver thorns – beautiful and deadly, and likely worth quite a bit of coin.

He slowed to watch the man cross the small courtyard, moving with an effortless grace and vanishing within the palace. He was completely unnoticed by the posted guards, as though they hadn’t seen him at all. How strange.

An owl hooted in a nearby tree, and he shook himself, shivering at the damp chill of the air. Assuring himself the Balmora Blue was still in his pocket, he set off down the road, footsteps heavy with exhaustion. A flagon of ale and a dreamless night sounded far more appealing than anything he’d heard in a long time.

∞

As the hours ticked by, and no sign of any vampire plot presented itself, Eonwe began to grow wary.

She waited at the base of the stairs, leaning against the wall in the shadow of a pillar, eyes on the door. It was the only known entrance within the Blue Palace, and the vampire would have to make his appearance soon.

The hours had rolled by at a slumbering gait and it wasn’t before very long she began thinking of him. Of Brynjolf. She could still feel the velvet cloth beneath her fingers, and she cursed herself for not saying something. If only to see a flicker of light in his glazed, empty eyes. If only to bring him a moment’s joy, regardless of what came later. She imagined their conversation wouldn’t have been… pleasant, to put it kindly. It was far too easy to recall their words of anger and distrust after the events of Irkngthand.

There was very little trust left between them to begin with, and she couldn’t bear to contemplate what it would mean for him, to suddenly reappear in his life after months of believing her well and truly dead. He’d been forced to believe such a thing once before, after her eight-month imprisonment in Cidhna Mine. Eonwe shuddered in revulsion. The place – she dared not name it aloud for fear of awakening old ghosts – continued to haunt her memory still.

_You’ve put yourself in danger over and over, and one of these times you’re going to end up dead!_

And he was right. His darkest fear had come to light. She _had_ died – but she’d come back, if resurrection _was_ at all possible. There were legends of people who reigned immortal, scattered throughout history, but how was it to be confirmed when those people had lived hundreds of years ago. They no longer existed now, which made immortality precisely… impossible.

Eonwe looked down at her hands, which were reddened from winding together in her agitation, staring at the grooves and tiny scars. It seemed unlikely. She was human, an ordinary living girl. Nothing more, surely! If she were invincible, incapable of true death, then what God _mad enough_ would choose _her_ to be such?

“I never meant for it to be this way,” she whispered quietly, words she would tell him she if ever found the courage. “I never meant for any of this to happen. I’m sorry.”

She wondered if those words were solely meant for him, or for herself.

“Dragonborn,” Elisif’s voice summoned her from the stair, and she looked up to see the jarl descending, wearing a faint, if tired, smile. “You’re still here. Surely even the greatest heroes need their rest.”

“The vampire hasn’t arrived,” Eonwe said bluntly. “I’m not leaving until I know it’s safe.”

Something pinched in Elisif’s expression, and she said, “While I appreciate your vigilance, it is not your duty to protect me. You have concerns of your own to worry over. Let my people do their work. I will forever remember your goodwill.”

“Jarl Elisif, I don’t think you understand. I am a member of the Dawnguard,” Eonwe said. “It is my job to be here. It has nothing to do with being Dragonborn.”

“And still, I assure you it is fine,” Elisif said sternly. “I would not have one sacrifice their sleep for the safety of another. My palace is protected, and my soldiers will guard me. It may seem naïve of me to say, but as the Jarl of Solitude, I must show faith in my own people. I cannot rely on others to do their work,” she smiled, gentling her command. “The next time you visit the Blue Palace, I would very much like to consider offering a gift for your service – to my protection and to Skyrim’s. My steward will handle any arrangements I deem suitable.”

“But--” Eonwe began, a flutter of panic stirring in her stomach at the clear dismissal, but Elisif stopped her with a raised hand.

“I am weary after today’s events, so please forgive me for if I am brash,” she said. “Farewell, my friend. Be well, always.”

The jarl gathered her skirts and returned up the stair, the heavy embroidered fabric swishing around her legs, and Eonwe sighed. There was no pressing the matter. She pulled the letter from Isran from where it was stashed in a pocket and unfolded it, reading it quietly. Her job was done – she had come to the Blue Palace, guarded Elisif, and she herself had given a command – one she nor the Dawnguard could refuse.

Laying the parchment on the bottom step, where a servant or maid might stumble across it, Eonwe began to leave when she heard something smash to the ground. It was faint, but she heard it as clearly as she might hear her own voice, and she looked up at the balcony of the second floor. It had come from the jarl’s quarters.

Eonwe climbed up the stair and rushed up the steps as quickly as her gown allowed her, thoughts racing as she struggled to quell her wariness while reasoning logically against her worry. Had something simply fallen over? Or was it thrown in defense? The scenarios flew through Eonwe’s mind as she raced to the jarl’s chambers around the bend in the hall.

A figure rounded the corner quite unexpectedly, and so suddenly she couldn’t keep from knocking shoulders with them. A pale face framed by thick black hair swung her way, creased with irritation, their dark eyes raking over her as they continued on their way without so much a word of apology. A splash of red on his finger drew her eye as he vanished. He seemed suspicious, and she meant to follow when the foul tang of blood reached her nose.

An eerie sensation gripped her and she reached for the wall, feeling as though her innards had contracted. Her palm slid, coated with a vile liquid, and she looked down at the dark smears on her hand. Looking at the wall, the splatter of blood was quite visible against the smooth stone. On the floor was a shattered vase. “Shit,” she swore, hairs raising along her arms.

Droplets on the floor led a clear, if staggering, path to the massive doors of the jarl’s quarters. It was slightly ajar, and the sharp metallic smell could be sourced to here. Eonwe held her breath as she touched the wood of the door, almost giving in to the coiling fear in her stomach. Her heart slammed against the cavity of her chest. All she needed was for someone to spring from behind the door and she would lose it completely.

Nudging the door with her toe, it bumped against something and swung back leisurely. She slid between the narrow space, the stench of fresh blood overpowering now, and she took a step into the luxuriously-decorated chamber.

Her foot pressed down on something soft and she looked down.

A sweet face stared up at her, her lovely eyes glassy and round with surprise, a gaping hole torn into her throat. A spray of blood covered her cheek, washing her shoulder and breast in red. Two puncture wounds, close together, pierced the side of the smooth column of neck. The jeweled necklace was encrusted with drying scarlet, sticking to her skin, glittering with a light her eyes were devoid of. Eonwe fell to her knees in despair.

Elisif the Fair was dead.

∞

She didn’t have a choice about it; she couldn’t stay at the palace and be questioned. They would know who she was, then everyone would know the Dragonborn lived. She couldn’t risk adding more fuel to the fire, so she gathered her blood-soaked skirts and found a safe route out of the palace.

She escaped through the servants’ passages and swept out into the unpatrolled corner of the gardens – not that they would remain unpatrolled for much longer, as Elisif’s body would very soon be discovered – and swept out into the gardens. She searched the walls for a spot to climb and, seeing nothing of use, wound up contemplating if one of the garden sheds would make a useful hiding place. Likely not, as the guards would search every nook and cranny, and she would undoubtedly be found long before sunrise.

Leaving the small confines of the shed, Eonwe peered between its wall and the stone; could she hide there? Squeezing into the space, she figured it might do if she ruffled the vines into place and concealed herself some. Her hand touched something at waist height and she looked down, seeing a broken gargoyle stored there…

…With a lever jutting up from its broken jaw. How wonderfully convenient.

Grasping it, she pulled, and the wall behind her promptly opened a narrow passage. Ducking within, the wall resealed itself. A hidden escape route.

The passage was filled with cobwebs and unlit torches mounted every twenty feet or so, but she left them unlit, instead following the winding tunnel and carefully navigating the cut stone steps as they twisted and turned in pitch blackness. Her mind created creatures with rows of bloody teeth and blind eyes watching from the shadows she couldn’t see, but nothing ever pounced upon her, and no sounds other than her own breaths and pattering feet were made. The smell of cold stone was lonely, but she took relief from the fact she _was_ alone, and carried on.

The passage must have been made many years ago, if not more than a few centuries. And years later, it remained perfectly relevant. Eonwe felt a crushing wave of guilt. If only Elisif had known of its location – unless she had.

Following the passage to its end, she found herself stepping out from a naturally-formed cave and onto the shores of a rocky beach, where the Sea of Ghosts washed up through the sand grains and smoothened pebbles. The shoreline led to a grove of spindly, wind-battered trees and beyond them, the towering arch overhead with Solitude on the far side of the channel.

After a time of strenuous hiking upriver and through the blasted marches – naturally – Eonwe began to recognize precisely where she was. Several months ago, while seeking out Gulum-Ei for information on Karliah’s whereabouts, she had crossed this very channel at this very spot after finding Tonilia at the East Empire Warehouse. She turned to look into the marshlands' forest; this time, where were no tracks leading to the skooma distillery.

Opposed to crossing the channel in her dress, Eonwe found a large flat rock and sat down, resting her aching legs as she began to untie the fastenings of the cumbersome skirts. She peeled them away, cringing at the cracking blood around her waist, and laid them aside with a grimace. She started next on the corset’s lacing, pushing past the throbbing in her shoulders as she tugged each loop and breathed every time the squashing cage freed a rib and let her inhale normally. The heavy wool and leather scales dropped away and she bent forward, heaving for breath, her chest distending with each gasp. The gasps threatened to rise to hysteria, and she was forced to cover her mouth and breathe through her nose, closing her eyes as she maintained some semblance of calm sanity.

As she was picking up the skirts to stash them somewhere no one would look, something fell from the pocket and into the frostbitten grass. Eonwe kneeled to recover whatever it had been and, as her fingers closed around it, she felt a shiver run up her spine. The lapping of the channel seemed to fall away, taking the crickets and the frogs with it, until everything was focused on the small black ring in her hand. It was the darkest gold possible, so it shone nearly black, set with a single gem in the middle of a four-pointed diamond.

Tonilia’s ring.

The ring the mercenary had been wearing.

The mercenaries she’d followed outside and…

Eonwe cried out suddenly, a bolt of pain shooting through her skull, and she lifted her hand to her head. The ache subsided almost instantly, but left her nearly breathless from the suddenness of it. How did she have this ring? More importantly, why couldn’t she remember what had happened? She recalled standing on the porch and seeing the riders saddling their horses as they prepared to leave, and overhearing a conversation—

 _…_ _had that place guarded better than any bandit fort I’ve seen in years…_

She stared down the ring, skin tingling uneasily. If the mercenary had been wearing it, then how did she come to have it? Why couldn’t she remember?

What did she _do?_

_What’s happening to me?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's tough to write author's notes because there's so much I want to say, but if there's anything I need to say, it's thank you. Thank you to everyone who is reading and to those who've left comments and kudos. I love knowing you're enjoying the story and I can't wait to write more. I'm a little pressed for writing time but I will update in August. You are all so lovely and I hope you liked the chapter :)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello to all of you wonderful people. I did say I would add another chapter in August at the end of the last one, didn't I?  
> Warning: Smut. Minor smut, but smut none the less. And a healthy dose of angst. Cheers :)

The Dainty Sload was harboured at the far northern docks, well out of sight from city eyes, making it a relatively easy target for any travelling black marketer, sailor with a criminal past, or thief carrying a life’s sentence in prison in his front jacket pouch. Brynjolf boarded the vessel and slipped inside without alerting the two crewmates leaning on the railing watching the terns over the water, slipped down to the first mate’s cabin without much trouble, and was looking for a good place to stow the Balmora Blue when a heavy weight cracked down on the back of his skull, and he promptly lost consciousness.

He came to some hours later, incapable of telling the time due to lack of a window to see the sun’s height, lying on a pile of straw in a most uncomfortable position; he suspected he’d been either simply dropped there or thrown, but judging from the bruises he could feel along his side, he suspected it hadn’t been the fairest of treatment. He resolved himself to the fact he would be there for some time, and pulled himself up off the ground when the floor failed to prove any satisfactory comfort.

He was leaning against the wall waiting for a guard or perhaps the dungeon torturer to stop by for a visit when the guard did arrive to shackle his wrists, leading him to the interrogation room, where said interrogator commandeered the wooden desk and padded chair; a record book open before him and a pot of ink at the ready, quill laid flat across the opening. Brynjolf was shoved forward and the interrogator looked up with a disinterested expression, adjusting the gold-rimmed eyeglasses perched on the end of his beaky nose.

“You will state your name for the record,” he, a Breton, stated with a distinctively nasally twang.

“Brynjolf.”

“And your surname, prisoner?”

“None which I care to give,” he answered. The interrogator glanced up, unamused, but scratched the name down regardless.

“You have been imprisoned for the keeping of a highly illegal substance. While mandatory procedure states you should be interrogated for the name of the supplier of the substance, the whereabouts of the supplier, and the usage of the substance, I must regretfully inform you the traditional procedure is not what we will be taking,” the interrogator said, setting aside the quill and folding his hands together. “Castle Dour’s dungeon is absolutely _full_ with criminals, and the original given order was that all who are to sentenced to serve a life in prison were to be sent to Cidhna Mine as labourers.”

“That being said,” he continued, tapping a clean fingernail against the wooden surface. “The Silver-Bloods have recently reopened their mining operation with a new workforce, and they have all the workers they need. The only option left is to sentence you to execution.”

The finality of the interrogator’s words left Brynjolf strangely numb.

“Tomorrow morning at precisely eight o’clock, you will attend execution,” the interrogator said grimly. “Do you have any personal belongings you’d wish for your relatives to have upon death?”

The reality of what he was hearing as surreal, but he was capable of speech enough to stammer, “N-no. I’ve nothing… ah, except for my amulet. And a ring. Small, silver. It belonged to… to my…” Words failed him and he sighed. “I’m sure someone will come for them.”

“Very well. Our business here is complete. You will remain in the holding cell until dawn,” the interrogator stated smoothly, adding the list of belongings to the page with a quick flourish. “Guard, please bring the next prisoner.”

∞

Evening came with a measly supper – a selection of stale bread and a cup of bitter, room-temperature water. Brynjolf left it, uncaring when one of the other prisoners took it for themselves. He remained in the corner of the holding cell, paying little attention to the other dozen shapes, all scraggly and hairy, the strong reek of urine and sweat on their skin.

Once, he glanced their way and saw everything he was feeling reflected in the sad droop of their shoulders or the bleak glaze of their staring eyes. A woman perhaps in her fifties, her hair scraggly and her face smeared with traces of old war paint, met his eye and offered a faint ironic smile. He simply looked away again, resting his head against the bars beside him and closed his eyes, shutting out the world.

An hour earlier, his belongings had been taken. He’d been removed of nearly everything to call his own prior in the day, excepting his tunic and trousers. He felt naked without the small silver ring between his fingers, or Gallus’ amulet around his neck. Such small, insignificant bits of silver and thread, yet how much they meant once they were gone.

None of the Thieves Guild made an appearance; Sapphire was establishing safer connections in Markarth while Rune moved back and forth between Whiterun and Windhelm, dealing with the fences they’d fought to acquire in the last two months; Vex’s whereabouts were unknown and Karliah was supposed to be in the Rift, tracking Mjoll and ensuring none of her mercenaries came close to Solitude. And the new recruits couldn’t be counted on to know what to do regarding a jailed comrade. Brynjolf was well and truly on his own, and the feeling of abandonment steadily increased until quarter to ten o’clock, when Thane Erikur strolled into the jail and he was brought out to see him.

Erikur wore a black-streaked fawn mantle over his shoulders, clasped at the shoulder with a topaz-studded brooch shaped into a shield. His coat was purple, a deep rich wine colour, trimmed with black fur sprinkled with gold threads; the picture was completed by his immense black boots and starched linen tunic, embroidered along the collar with small Nordic designs. Every finger held a ring, the diamonds stars winking in the dim light of the dungeon.

“I’m going to keep this brief,” Erikur began softly as the door swung and bolted shut behind them. “I am needed back at the court to deal in recent affairs.”

“Affairs more important than our arrangement?” Brynjolf heard his malice tainting his voice.

Erikur chuckled. It was a cold sound. “Jarl Elisif was murdered yesterday evening,” he said. She was found in her quarters, throat torn open by a vampire. Two of the castle maids claimed they saw someone fleeing through the gardens,” he rubbed his eyes and as his head turned more clearly into the light of the sconces, Brynjolf saw the dark circles beneath the thane’s eyes. “Solitude is in a hazardous position and it falls to her thanes to uphold the people until a new jarl can take her place.

“What’s strange is the person they described was very much like the woman you were speaking with outside the library,” he added, eyes narrowing. “Who was she?”

“I never saw her face, and she didn’t speak,” Brynjolf said, shaking his head. “Why are you here? Did you come to spring me or question me?”

“Neither,” Erikur brushed something from his sleeve and reached into his pocket, withdrawing a thin vial. “The Balmora Blue you placed on the ship was ordinary skooma. I arranged for the guards to find you there after planting it.”

Brynjolf felt the blood drain from his face.

Wait… _what?_

“I knew the Thieves Guild would falter; I’m honestly surprised you lasted as long as you did,” he said. “Some of your people have serious backbone, but with you as her leader, there was no possible way your incompetence and inability to take the necessary changes to better yourselves would benefit me in any way.”

“We’re thieves, not assassins!” he yelled. “Damnit, Erikur. We’ve spoken about this!”

Erikur laughed. “It pains me to tell you this, Brynjolf. You don’t even know what was going on in your own organization. Vex was taking on all the jobs you denied. Did she never tell you?”

Brynjolf refused to speak aloud; fury raced through his blood, hot and potent. He’d always known Vex was fiery and stubborn, but he’d never taken her to be so bloodthirsty. Unless Erikur’s words were lies, and the man was known to charm his way through every situation with a few empty promises.

“By Mara, what happened to the man who could frame priests for murder and noblewomen for adultery with ease?” Erikur exclaimed. “You used to be the cream of the crop, the best of your kind. You’re little more than a weak and cowardly miscreant. Gods, Mercer Frey had more of a spine than you, and he’s dead. I’m surprised you weren’t dragged down with the lot of them.”

“I suppose I’m hard to kill,” Brynjolf sneered, though his heart wasn’t in it. He was ashamed to hear truth in Erikur’s words. Karliah’s timbre echoed in his ears. _This is your responsibility_ , she’d told him across the table. It hadn’t ever been a responsibility he’d wanted. “But sometimes our time isn’t when we expect it to be.”

Erikur frowned. “No. I’m beginning to believe the Thieves Guild’s time ran out a very long time ago. You’re just hanging onto the bones of what’s left. Can’t you just… let her die in peace?”

Soft olive skin, cast grey with the pallor of death, rushed up into his mind’s eye, breaking narrow cracks in what was left of his armor. Brynjolf looked away, stubbornly refusing to utter another word. Aye, that was the problem, wasn’t it? He couldn’t let go. He couldn’t let her die.

And so, she remained, even in death, dragging him down with her.

“I will not be able to attend the beheading, so forgive me for my absence,” Erikur said in clear tones of dismissal, rubbing beneath his eyes with a sigh. “Falk will be wondering where I am. I’d be there under other circumstances but… as you know, the court simply cannot go a day without my council,” a smarmy grin broke across the bastard’s mug, and he rapped on the door to be let out. “But then again, you never really mattered to my overarching goals in this city. I wish the Guild luck, Brynjolf! I’ll be there for when the rest of you are lined up on the chopping block, don’t you worry.”

With the bastard gone, Brynjolf felt the blazing pit of anger die out in a puff of smoke, its tendrils leaving him weary with imagined scenarios of breaking out and murdering Erikur in every way possible. It was entertaining for a bit, but he grew wearisome of thinking about the fool; it was a waste of time, and sleep, to let his mind linger over something he’d never have a chance to do when he had a date with the headsman’s axe come morning.

For the rest of the night, Brynjolf reminisced over Delvin’s warning to him. _Open your eyes, mate! Who knows what kinds of problems she’s dealin’ with? We don’t need more trouble than we’ve already got._

_Fine. Do what you want, Bryn. When things go south, don’t come cryin’ to me about your mistake. You hear?_

“Aye, aye. I hear you,” Brynjolf whispered to the dark. A prisoner nearby shifted in their sleep, adjusting their weight on their side; their soft huff of breath announced they were asleep once more. Brynjolf shifted himself, making himself more comfortable where he lay in the corner of the cell, his head lolling tiredly on his sore neck. He didn’t want to give into the nagging need to close his eyes, but before he could convince himself otherwise, he slipped under the alluring cloak of night and drifted away.

∞

_Eonwe leaned on her arms in the windowsill, her slender form wrapped in the billowing white curtains, her dark brown curls cascading down her naked back. The sun caught the unruly strands of hair framing her head, lighting them like a golden halo. She watched the street in idle interest as people walked by with their wicker baskets full of fresh vegetables, gleaming glass bottles, or bundles of fabric and spools of coloured wool. The low-beamed ceiling was of the loft above The Winking Skeever’s neighboring residence, the thieves’ main safehouse; the soft bed of clean linens and carved dressers replaced the usual furnishings of rickety wooden chairs and haphazardly stacked boxes of pilfered cargo from the docks below._

_The pure pleasure in simply seeing her momentarily allowed him to forget the raw ache of loss, and he gently touched her shoulder, the skin dimpling slightly. Green eyes glowed with love and he moved closer to her, wrapping his arms around her and pressing his face into the softness of her hair. It smelled of wildflowers and sunlight, and he inhaled deeply. It was hard to not notice the sweet burning scent of ashes lingering in her messy locks, but for now he ignored it, instead sliding a hand over the smooth pane of her belly and dropping lower between the curve of her thighs._

_“Haven’t you had enough?” she teased breathlessly, leaning her head back against his shoulder, the long column of her neck freckled with faint sand-coloured freckles. Brynjolf merely smiled, the corner of his mouth tugging up at seeing the pleasure turning her cheeks pink, and touched his lips to hers._

_“Of you? Never, lass.”_

_“And you once called me insatiable,” she whispered, arching up on her toes to kiss him more fully, a slow moan robbed from her throat as his fingers stroked her , lazily drawing a circle against her soft, moist skin. “Bryn… I have to leave soon.”_

_“Not yet,” he urged, turning and lifting her in one smooth motion. She wrapped her legs around his waist and captured his mouth again, teeth biting into his lower lip as he filled her with his length. A low sigh of relief rushed over her lips, warm on his face, and he propped her on the windowsill. He was slow with her, enjoying every small sound she made, unable to contain his joy at watching her become undone with his loving. He was practiced in wooing women and it showed, but somehow, he found himself giving her his all, emptying whatever contents remained in his heart and refilling it with her alone. She did that to him, his lass._

_“You’ve been with many woman, then?” she asked unexpectedly, her voice uneven as her breathing increased. He wrinkled his brow a little, giving her a look, and she laughed teasingly, running her fingertip over his lower lip._

_“Aye, but none quite like you.”_ _He bit her fingertip lightly._

_“You must say that to all the girls,” she gasped, head straining to fall back, climbing the peak and unable to halt her progress even if she desired. He tangled his hand in her hair – its lustrous browns and russets and golds – and pulled her head forward._

_“No, lass. Only the one I love.”_

_A stifled cry escaped her as her climax blindsided her, and he pulled her from the windowsill to crush her body to his, the maddening ache subsiding to blind euphoria. Her legs shuddered against his sides and he nimbly turned them both toward the bed, dropping onto it ungracefully with a muffled grunt._

_It didn’t matter that he poured his soul into her to burn. It didn’t matter that she tore his heart out with her hands and crushed it to dust. It didn’t matter at all, because even if she were gone forever, she would live eternally in his memories and his dreams, and surely it was enough. Surely…_

_Her hand closed around his, fingers linking together as they always did, and he felt the edges of the dream begin to evaporate. It always seized him with dread, this moment, and as much as he wanted to keep his eyes closed and stay with her, he never would._

_Eonwe leaned over him, propped up on one elbow as she looked down at him with a tender smile on her face, flushed and dewy with exertion. But her eyes were clouded with sadness, a reminder their stolen moments together were only a dream. “I promised you I would come back,” she whispered._

_“Don’t fret, lass. You’re here now,” he said, closing his eyes again._

_This time he might stay longer. This time she might not leave. This time…_

_He felt her hand pull from his as she rose. The smell of wildflowers was choked out by ashes, and he didn’t have to open his eyes to know she was gone._


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I pounded this chapter out in the space of a few hours and I'm pretty darn proud of myself for actually writing an entire chapter in one sitting. I wanted to stretch out the space between the last chapter and the one following this one, so I feel it's necessary. It's also a compulsive sort of piece, but ties up a small issue I noticed and works overall. Hope you like it. I can't believe I've posted two chapters in one month!

Eonwe came awake, back bowed and skin dewy with sweat, her body tingling with arousal as the dream vaporized as softly as mist burning away in the light of dawn. The thin cotton clung to her breasts, the nipples hard and puckering the dampened fabric, and her thighs felt hot and wet. Suddenly wrapped too tightly in the linen sheets, she kicked them aside and swung to her feet, crossing to the windows and opening the shutters. A nightly breeze wafted over her bare shoulder, cold as winter, and she peered out at the moonlight turning the cityscape black and silver. The streets were silent and empty, save the occasional guard patrolling with a white-flamed torch in hand, a faint pool of light following the shadow at his feet, too quiet to be heard from the inn room’s window.

She returned to the bed and sank down slowly, laying back on the rumpled sheets and closing her eyes. A breeze gusted over her bare thighs and she felt gooseflesh rise in its wake, the sticky clamminess wicking away. In her mind’s eye, she could recall the raw passion of the dream, the way it woke her senses and left her flooded with feeling and so broken she felt boneless. It had felt real, real enough to confuse her into believing it was real, real enough to tempt her into longing for more.

And she hated it.

Eonwe rolled onto her side with a huff of annoyance; there would never _be_ more. There would never be anything. She’d made up her mind after renting the tavern room and a hot bath to scrub the last of the blood from her skin and out from beneath her fingernails, though the pervasive smell of it seemed to remain. She was leaving the city tomorrow, regardless of if Brynjolf was here or not, and setting off to gods-know-where – so long as it wasn’t staying in the bloody city another moment. She would dedicate a night’s rest and a morning purchasing provisions with the last of her coin to prepare her for the road, and she would follow it, wherever it might take her. And she wouldn’t look back.

There were too many questions, too many queer elements to her mess of a life, and she didn’t have the strength or will to want to have them answered. If a dragon couldn’t answer them, then she suspected no one could. She was alone, completely and utterly alone, and she doubted sailing back into Brynjolf’s life with a cheery, “Hi, it’s been awhile. I’m not dead. How’ve you been doing since the Guild was massacred?” would make it any better.

But an inkling of helpless knowing made itself clear in her head that she’d never be free of the ties holding her to the past, no matter what she did or how far she ran.

Here she was trying to run again; the moment she was in over her head, she was marching for the border and into yet another mess. She wondered what it would be this time but it didn’t take too much imagination; it was always some crazy lunatic trying to take over by blotting out the sun or resurrecting dragons to reignite a war from ancient times, or picking fights with the Empire because of the Thalmor while doing exactly what the Thalmor wanted him to do. Idiots.

Worse was knowing her heart would never change, and every fibre of her being would respond to the dreams, clutching her body in a pleasure she’d never known and throttling her spirit until it admitted defeat to the phantom desires of the flesh.

She was virginal in all senses of the word but she was no fool; she was well-read and knew two bodies could unite in a way comparing to nothing else, bonding two souls in burning ecstasy. And it was this knowledge, this intense feeling of yearning that left her weak in the knees.

Eonwe pummeled the pillow beside her head, savouring each blow of her fist into the feather-stuffed pouch. She wanted to turn it all off, to not have to feel or think; it would be so much simpler to go without bindings and live without the regrets and self-loathing she knew she’d feel afterward.

The treacherous part of her mind wondered curiously if he dreamed of her in the same way she did, and she flung the pillow across the room at the window shutters, making them clatter loudly and briefly wake someone in the neighbouring room.

A penetrating snore assured her they had fallen asleep again, and she rolled off the bed and reached for her trousers and boots, pulling them on and quickly tightening the laces, grabbing her cloak last and departing with a dagger thrust through her belt. She needed some air.

Corpulus Vinius was leaning against the counter yawning, and only two patrons were in the tavern – a spell-sword mercenary slouched in the back corner waiting for a potential customer to come in, and a gaunt-looking traveling merchant with tapered ears and a handstitched rucksack. Eonwe walked past them all with her hood drawn up, not wanting to chance recognition or draw attention, and slipped outside and into the cold moonlight.

A walk through the city proved mind-clearing and soothing, and she forgot her troubles the further she wandered, straying down a side alley and arcing back up to avoid the Blue Palace. She had no need going near there now, and she pushed aside the small bud of regret before it had a chance to blossom into something bigger and less easy to manage. She followed the street back up that lead her outside of the Temple of the Divines and carried on by; not the religious sort, she felt no need to seek aid from the Divines – Dragonborn or not. Akatosh might have had a hand in creating her, but she didn’t feel the need to pay him her reverence or bring her concerns to the Dragon God. She liked to deal with her own issues alone, as well as she could, and left it at that.

Castle Dour stood at the end of the large courtyard, a grand shape topped with a conical spire, its main door guarded by two sentries in the customary leather-and-red of the Imperial Legion. In the middle of the courtyard was a stone-lined hearth surrounded by benches, with a large kiosk off to the side of it, pinned with several notices. She went to investigate them, reading the suggestions from citizens, offered bounties for retrieving lost belongings, official bounties from the court with large rewards, and faded documents not yet pulled down.

One interesting notice mentioned an able-bodied adventurer to investigate Wolfskull Cave after a report of strange noises and lights could be heard from the location, signed at the bottom by Falk Firebeard, the court steward. The delicate signature of Elisif the Fair was below his, the “S” joining with the “I” of her first name. An assortment of pinned flowers and written messages to the late jarl filled in the empty spaces all around the kiosk. _Yet another life I failed to save_ , Eonwe thought sadly, coming around to see an execution list below a twisted bit of lavender.

There had to be forty names or more; she didn’t count them all. The names were written in a neat and orderly hand, signed at the bottom by several people, two of which belonged to Captain Aldis and the city executioner. It was signed for the following morning. She looked over the names with an idle eye, until one stood out so presently it was as though the page reached up and smacked her itself. Blinking and leaning down to line up better with the page, she squinted and reread the names carefully.

 

 _Agremor  
A_ _lynna_  
_Arnof_  
_Brita_  
_Brynjolf_

 

She wasn’t imagining it but _by the Nines above_ she wished she was. Something inside her seemed to rock to a standstill and she had to force herself to breathe in when she realized she’d stopped. She touched the paper lightly and jerked her fingers away as the parchment crinkled, straightening quickly as her thoughts began to race. It could be a completely different man for all she knew, her panicking mind tried to soothe, but somehow she doubted it immensely. If the name was truly his, and he was to be executed in the morning… she looked across the courtyard at Castle Dour, knowing the prison was there, below the very stones of her feet. Should she go and see for herself? Was it reckless, if not idiotic, to dare step into the place full knowing that if he was indeed there, her actions at the sight of him would be reactionary and unstoppable?

She shook herself briskly and moved away from the kiosk; she was already doing exactly the worst she could do – thinking about it. Involving herself. Getting caught up in the gray area she was trying to escape. Already she was putting multiple plans together in her head – how to lure the sentries at the outer door away so the coast would be clear, to know whether or not there was a concealed escape route somewhere within the dungeon itself, how to convince him to follow her out, if she should land herself in jail and risk being in a cell too far to find a way out for both of them…

“Stop it, just stop it!” she hissed under her breath, knocking her hood back and dragging her fingers through her hair. It wasn’t as long as she was used to and she came to the ends quickly, rather than bunching it between her fingers like she would when she was frustrated. She was reacting instead of thinking; she was panicking and she needed to calm down, sit, and start thinking. She needed to use her skills and find a way to do this. She seated herself on one of the benches and held her head between her palms, breathing deep gulps of air and letting them out slowly, closing her eyes and centering herself. _Think calmly, that’s right, just stay calm and don’t do anything irrational_.

Entering the dungeon was the most irrational thing she could possibly do, but she knew she needed to know if it was him there or not before she did something even more irrational and foolish. She got up and crossed the courtyard, met the eye of one sentry who nodded and let her in, and stepped into the foyer of Castle Dour with the impression of a hundred eyes on her. Except there weren’t – just two large brown ones and four more belonging to two playing cards in the corner, nodding off as they made their rounds between games.

Visitors weren’t normally allowed in the early hours before light, and she approached one of the guards with a nervous smile and the most innocent look she could conjure up. “Would it be possible to see a prisoner? I know it’s very late but I had the children to look after before I could come--” she attempted bashfulness and fluttered her lashes a little. The guard looked awfully uncertain and she was preparing to call the whole plan off when he held up one hand, requested her to wait a moment, and went to the card-playing guards. Bending slightly at the waist, he spoke to them and Eonwe saw them glance her way, then nod with light shrugs and resume their game. The guard came back with a friendly smile.

“I can let you have ten minutes. What is the name of your…?” he inquired, leading the way down the steps and into the dungeon.

“Brynjolf,” she said softly, keeping her voice from ringing. The guard nodded and made her wait briefly outside the interrogation room, where a large tome of recorded names was kept, and said a triumphant “Aha!” when he found it.

“He’s in the holding cell. There are strict instructions to leave all prisoners in their cells after hours, so I’m afraid you’ll only be able to say a few words,” the guard looked apologetic. “I hope this will suffice.”

“I understand,” Eonwe said in a voice she hoped sounded understanding, trying not to clench her hands.

She was led down to the lowest cells, long semi-circular spaces divided by stone walls, large enough to house fifty bodies shoulder to shoulder in rows of two and following the shape of the curving wall. It was slightly colder down here, and a pool of gathered moisture was in the middle of the cracked floor. Braziers lit the space with weak lighting, enough to see the shadowed bodies on the floors of the cells. Eonwe swallowed her nerves and looked around, not seeing the familiar red of his hair anywhere.

“I have a visitor for Brynjolf,” the guard suddenly said, quite loudly, awakening several of the sleeping prisoners. Eonwe felt her heart launch into a full gallop, and she felt a rush of safety hidden in the dark of her hood. She knew at once she wasn’t going to lower it.

“He’s here,” a cracked woman’s voice said from behind them, and the guard lifted a torch from the brazier, stepping closer to the bars to reveal the bodies within. Many groaned in complaint and shrank away, turning their faces aside. The woman who spoke made an unintelligible noise and shielded her face with a hand missing half a finger. One figure in the corner shifted and Eonwe felt her stomach lurch. It was him. He was here.

“Ah, there you are,” the guard said in relief, as though he’d begun to worry they had an escaped prisoner on their hands. “You have a lovely visitor, and I’m sure she would appreciate it if you acknowledge the fact she came so far to see you before morning. Come now,” he said to Eonwe. “It’s safe enough to approach the bars.”

Eonwe took a small step forward, not enough to bring her entirely into the glow of the torch, but a little closer to see the illuminated outline of his bowed head and the arm propped up on his knee, leaning against the bars. She felt her gut churning violently at the sight of the state of the cell and its inhabitants, despite them being criminals. It was an awful sight and her heart went out to those who might have only been trying to steal food for their supper, or those who were framed for false accusations. They were surely here.

“Shall I leave you?” the guard inquired gently beside her and Eonwe nodded, a quick jerk of the head. “I will be at the top of the stair if you have need of me.” He moved away, taking the torch with him, and leaving her in half darkness. Eonwe went to the bars and knelt, merely a foot away from him. If he turned his head now, and if she lowered her hood, he would see her.

Eonwe reached into her pocket and withdrew a pick, laying it on the tile and sliding it between the bars. He shifted, glancing down, but she averted her head when he looked up in surprise.

“It’s not worth it,” he told her, catching the pick and pushing it back between the bars to her. Their fingers brushed as she reached for it, and she closed her eyes, forcing herself to remember the feel of his skin against hers – the only contact they would ever have for the rest of her life.

A life with no mortal end.

Tears pooled in her eyes and fell down her cheeks, dripping from her chin, but she kept her mouth firmly closed and let them run until they stopped. “Why?” she whispered, hoping the tears thickening her voice would be enough to keep him from recognizing it.

“It’s just how it is,” he said, the corner of his mouth curling into a smile. “You’d best go, lass.”

Eonwe very nearly reached up to pull back her hood, to let him see her and know she was alive. She felt the want so brilliantly, so fervently, she almost lifted her hand to do it. But she knew she couldn’t. Breaking him out of jail was not her forte in the least. It would be too loud, and the guards would be expecting anything with her appearance in the middle of the night. She would have to leave, without Brynjolf, and find a way to free him before the execution.

Standing, she meant to heed his advice but he lifted a hand. “Wait. Could you do me a favour? I won’t have another chance.”

 _Anything_ , she thought, nodding.

“They have a few of my belongings locked up. Could you take them to the Temple of the Divines? Leave them in the cellar by the gated door. A friend of mine will know where to find them,” he said. “It’s only an old amulet and a ring.”

Eonwe nodded and her heart twisted to see his smile, a lopsided thing filled with equal parts relief and misery. “I’d have liked to have had them tomorrow, but at least I’ll know they’re safe.”

Before she could answer, the guard had returned. “Ah, I’m sorry to interrupt but I’m afraid you’ll have to leave now. You can attend the execution at dawn, if you feel it’s necessary.” The guard began to leave, expecting her to follow.

At the top of the stairs, Eonwe paused and said, “The prisoner has some belongings he wanted me to have.”

“I can retrieve those for you. Go and wait in the foyer. I’ll meet you there,” the guard circled back and Eonwe followed the curving passages until she found the door leading out. She was sitting in the foyer quietly when the guard came to her with a small wooden box, and inside she glimpsed a flash of silver. Her chest constricted.

“Will you need anything else?” the guard asked pleasantly.

“You’ve been a great help. Thank you,” Eonwe said with a touch of sincerity in her voice. The guard beamed and opened the door for her, wishing her a goodnight and his condolences. Eonwe stepped outside and into the waning midnight, where the horizon was just beginning to brighten.

Clutching the little box containing the amulet and the replica of her ring to her chest, she completely missed the guard walking her way in front of her and bumped into him. “Careful there, citizen,” the guard said behind his steel face plate, stepping around her to continue his patrol. Eonwe watched him, suddenly inspired.

And changed her destination to the guard barracks.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for reading.

_4E 203, 17th of Sun's Height_

 The iron gate rolled open, a rattling noise that brought Brynjolf startling awake from his hunched position in the darkened corner. Three guards filled the opening, one holding a brightly-lit lantern up to see them crouched like animals in the holding cell. There was no kindness in their faces, and no gentleness in their hands as they led each prisoner from the cell; some spat on the floor, others wore vindictive glares and shook the hands off their shoulders. They were all accounted for, given their final rites by a Priestess of Arkay, and led out into the pale light of day.

Morning had come after all, it seemed.

∞

The headsman’s axe arced through the air. Gore-slick steel cleaved through skin and bone. A spray of crimson drops showered the foremost observers of the crowd, their cries not of outrage but of inhuman satisfaction. The still-convulsing body was dragged away, the head in the crate taken away for a moment, then returned. Red dripped through a small hole in its darkly-stained base.

The next prisoner was led forward. The sharp reek of urine filled the air, doused only by the unbearably overwhelming metallic tang of blood. A shriek rang from the crowd, a stirring to see the fainting woman, clutching a wrapped bundle to her chest. The scarlet sash of a city guard parted the crowd and led the woman away by the arm; she kept looking back, face whiter than her homespun dress, its hem dirty and trailing on the cobblestones.

“Next,” Captain Aldis announced sternly.

The executions would last only another hour, half if there were no more interruptions. Brynjolf twisted at his bound wrists, trying to loosen the unforgivingly tight ropes; the skin was reddened and raw. He could feel sweat on his brow and his hair hung in his eyes, each strand as bright as flame as they swung to and fro as the line inched forward with every death.

Another five prisoners and he would be in that very place, would drop to his knees, would feel the chopping block sticky beneath his cheek, would feel the prick of blade on his neck before the curtain dropped. He wondered if he should close his eyes or leave them open, steal a final glimpse of the world before it was ripped away. The corner of his mouth pulled up in black irony at the thought.

Aye, it was only suitable for a thief to go out as they lived.

He watched the prisoner in front of him be forced before the block and bent forward over it. They were in their mid-thirties – rather near his age – a shade taller but much thinner, lacking his broad frame in favour of a narrow form. Their feet were tucked beneath their haunches and their hands were pressed together, palm to palm. They prayed.

The axe swung and they jerked once, then slumped sideways, their prayer silenced.

For one flicker of a heartbeat, he felt a powerful surge of refusal and the instinct to fight kicked in. If he got his arms up over his head, he could smash his elbows into the captain’s head; he could take advantage of the reeling captain and use his height and weight to drive him aside and make a run for it. He could be off the plinth and into the crowd, let his broad shoulders do the work as he carved a relentless path through the crowd. Brynjolf hadn’t gotten much farther in thought when he was taken by the arm and pulled forward.

He was suddenly dizzy, and he fell to his knees harshly, the impact jarring up his legs. He clenched his teeth, fighting the waves of nausea, and stared out at the crowd. He saw shouting faces, their mouths open as they roared, their fists waving over their heads. Some held a chant for blood.

He realized he was terrified, shaking with it, a fear he’d buried deep. Why hadn’t he noticed before?

_Scurrying up the hill, a boy rushed up the beaten path to the lonely little house at the edge of the wood. No more than a few walls and a ramshackle roof slapped together, barely able to keep out the wind on days like today, the house overlooked all The Rift and Eastmarch beyond, the golden-leafed trees mixing with the darker green of pines, before vanishing entirely into the craggy sulfur pools boiling with foul-smelling steam over the thin crust._

_The boy was a few months shy of ten and as filthy as a youngster of no class or importance comes; his skin was smudged from foot to neck with dirt, as was his freckled plump face, a shiner swelling his bottom lip from an unfortunate collision with a fallen log and a sharp-edged rock. The raggedy mop of copper-red hair fell in unruly whorls into bright green eyes, usually gleaming with mischief, although today they were shadowed with a gut-deep fear as he raced back home before his mother discovered him missing._

_Alas, his fears were sound; as he crested the rise, sides heaving as he gulped for breath, he found the narrow shape of his mother standing in the doorstop, her hands on her hips, her brown homespun dusted with flour (or was it dust?) and her apron smeared with soot-stains from cleaning out the hearth. Her silver-streaked hair was falling out from beneath the kerchief she wore, but it did little to hide the enraged expression on her wrinkled face. His mother was not a young woman; she’d raised five before him from the day she was wedded a good thirty years ago, all of them with young families of their own as crofters or cottars, and although her health was sound, she’d suffered six children’s worth of heartache from he alone from the moment he learned to walk._

_“Half past six and you turn up!” she shrilled as he ambled up to her sullenly, grey eyes feverish with anger. “Supper was done an hour ago, and where were you? Off gallivanting in the woods, preferring the company of grubs and beasties! Eaten any mushrooms this time, young lad?”_

_“No, Ma.” The boy looked at the toes of his shoes, hand-me-downs from one of the older brothers he knew nothing about and hadn’t ever met, caked with mud and cracked from wear. They were still much nicer to look at._

_“I don’t know what I’m going to do with you,” she huffed, crossing her arms over her chest. “Your sister Bianca never put one toe out of line, and she was the most rebellious of you all! You’re your father’s son alright, giving me more grey hairs and heartache than a mother deserves.”_

_He kept staring at his shoes, even when his mother laid a hand on his shoulder lightly. “Go and wash up. I’ll heat some supper for you. I was half prepared to send you to bed without any, but I won’t let that rabbit go to waste.” Nudging him in the direction of the rain barrel, where the laundry was done on sunny days, she disappeared into the weather-beaten house and busying herself stacking timber on the hearth._

_But he didn’t go to the rain barrel._

_It wasn’t necessarily a matter of not listening. He kept sneaking small glances over his shoulder as he walked around the side of the house and headed for the old split tree, its branches all bent off to one side. It was gnarly, the bark all split and oozing sap (he’d tasted it once but it wasn’t very good) and a large rock lay at the base in the middle of the split. Kneeling down, he pushed against the rock with all his weight, and it slid aside in the dirt._

_In the small hollow where the roots twisted over on themselves was a burlap sack stuffed in the lowest corner. He pulled it out and opened it, peeking inside quickly, then reached into his pocket and withdrew a little pebble-shaped lump. It was red in the sunlight, scattering blood-coloured rings across his fingers, the smooth faces polished to a gleam. A ruby, big enough to fill his fist. It was beautiful, but what’s more, it was worth coin. A lot of coin._

_He heard his mother calling for him. Stuffing the ruby into the burlap sack and shoving it under the rock, he had just enough time to restore the hiding place back to its usual appearance and run back down to the house as his mother stepped off the eaves and found him at the rain barrel, pouring a jug of water into a smaller bucket._

_“Were you ogling your reflection in it? It doesn’t take that long to scrub your hands, lad,” she smiled, licking a finger and running it along the inside of his tunic. It came away black and she grimaced. “Hot bath before bed. Come in and eat your soup before it chills. Mara help me if I have to heat it again.”_

_Dutifully, he sat at the table and quietly thanked his mother as she placed the bowl in front of him. The table was old, hand-carved by her grandfather, the surface all scratched and weathered. It was uneven and the bowl wobbled a little, spilling a small brown puddle. She handed him a spoon and brought over a loaf of bread, the edges charred, and began slicing it._

_“When is Da coming home?” he asked, stirring the soup. The broth was a little thicker than water, bits of carrot and potato and some green herb floating on the surface, and the pieces of meat were indeed rabbit. He may have been stirring the soup, but he was watching his mother from beneath his eyelashes, so he saw her face change slightly and her hand wobbled before cutting into the bread._

_“Soon,” she answered gingerly._

_“When’s that?”_

_“Eat your soup. Do you want bread?”_

_“No. I want to know when Da is coming home,” he insisted, pushing the bowl away and sitting up taller. “When is he coming home, Ma?”_

_“I said soon. That’s enough, now,” she said firmly. “Eat your supper.”_

_“I don’t want to eat. I want to know when Da’s coming home!” he cried._

_The knife missed the bread and wedged into the wood, and grey eyes flashed up to his face. “When he’s done bedding that whoring bitch of his and bothers to remember his family, he’ll be home! Now shut up and finish your supper!” she shouted._

_She turned the colour of a fish belly and sat down hard, nearly missing the chair._

_A long silence stretched out between them, and he found it hard to pull his eyes away from his mother. He was presented a wide and upsetting array of emotions he’d never seen on his mother’s face, and it was at once disturbing and intriguing to watch. But if he was to be honest, he was far too scared to look away. He’d never heard her say such language before, but he knew what it meant. He’d been in the slums of Riften enough to know what the word “whore” meant and its implications. He may have been only ten, but he was in a situation where – rather unfortunately – he didn’t get the pretend he lived in a rose-tinted world where such things didn’t exist._

_“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said those things. He is your father, after all,” his mother spoke slowly. He bit his lower lip hard and nodded, pretending he understood. There was a lot he didn’t understand, but what he did know made him feel sick. His father spent a lot of time away from home, but when he was, they only ever argued and threw things and hit each other. He always smelled of ale and flowery oils, smelled he associated with the man who was supposed to be his father, the man who was never there._

_He knew his mother was sad, and seeing her always so sad made him desperately unhappy._

_“Where does Da go?” he dared to ask._

_At first, he didn’t think she would answer, but she pulled off her kerchief and laid it on the table. She smoothed back her hair, thin and fraying at the edges, and twisted the length around her hand. She sighed and shook her head, shame and disapproval in her voice. “He’s a thief. He takes things that don’t belong to him and sells them to people for coin. I used to be one… once,” she added much softer. “But it’s a life for miscreants. I wanted to raise my children with values, and to believe hard work earned more than coin. I wanted my children to be better, to be good.”_

_He thought of the bag of stolen treasures outside beneath the split tree, and felt his stomach drop to the floor. She would be furious if she knew. She would hate him forever and ever. His mouth went dry and part of him wanted to say what he’d done, what he’d been doing, but fear stopped him. He could not tell her, not ever._

_His mother grasped the handle of the knife and pried it loose, and dragged the tip beneath a fingernail absentmindedly. “I loved him,” she said. Like her eyes, she was far away. “I thought he was a good man. He made a lot of promises, none he kept. But I did love him.”_

_Shaking herself, as though to clear the ensnaring cobwebs of memory, she tapped the rim of the bowl as she straightened. “Finish up while I get water from the well, and don’t leave your clothes lying about. We might not have much, but I can conjure up a hot bath when I need to.”_

_He waited until she went outside before leaving the table with his still-full bowl, and tipped its contents back into the soup pot. There was no need wasting it._

“Captain Aldis!” a single voice rang from ahead, drawing him from memory, and all looked to see an approaching guard, their red sash a blaze of colour amidst the dull tones and faded patterns of the crowd.

“What is the meaning of this interruption?” Aldis demanded, although he lifted a hand, indicating the headsman wait until he heard what the guard had to say.

“…prisoner’s wanted for questioning,” they were saying, voice muffled behind the concealing helmet, panting from the spent exertion of rushing to interrupt the proceedings.

“On who’s order?” Aldis demanded, arms folding across his chest. The crowd was bellowing in rage, their fevered protests hardly silenced by the positioned guards at the base of the plinth.

“Legate Rikke, sir. She sent me as soon as she knew where he was,” the guard continued calmly.

“The legate holds no control over executions.”

The guard stiffened, and Brynjolf saw their gloved hand clench at their side. “Shall I tell the legate you intend to disobey her order? Or would you care to tell her yourself?” they challenged.

Captain Aldis held his tenacious bearing a moment longer, then sighed audibly and gestured sharply to the headsman. Brynjolf was hauled to his feet and the guard stepped forward, gingerly reaching out to take his arm, but seemed to reconsider it and drew their hand back, instead indicating he follow with a jerk of their head. “Let’s not keep the legate waiting,” they said stiffly.

The crowd was savage and it was only the city guards positioned to fend them back from mauling them as they passed. Brynjolf tried loosening his bindings as he doggedly followed the guard, who didn’t seem to be paying much attention to him; he was half-considering his plans to run for it, knowing he wouldn’t find another chance like this once they reached Castle Dour – when it occurred to him they weren’t heading for Castle Dour. The guard kept walking, across the training yard and toward the Temple of the Divines – where there were plenty of concealing walls out of sight of the training yard where recruited soldiers and guards filled targets with arrows during the daylight hours.

Brynjolf kept following, wondering if he could catch them by surprise once they reached the corner, bash their head against the wall and make his escape; the helmet might prevent him from knocking them out, and he began to reconsider other options, looking at their poor array of on-hand weapons. He was preparing himself when the guard stopped.

He waited several moments for them to keep moving, wondering if they realized they’d passed Castle Dour and didn’t know how to turn back without looking like an idiot in front of him… but they didn’t. Then he noticed their arms were trembling slightly at their sides, and it all made sense.

Ah, he thought comprehendingly. “Well, get on with it, then,” he offered quietly, not wanting to scare them into making a mess of it.

“On with what?” they demanded, spinning around. Their eyes blinked darkly within the helmet’s steel facing.

“Killing me. It was a clever trick,” he gave them a lopsided grin, and they drew back a step, as though afraid. Or startled he was quick enough to know their intentions. “Drawing me out of view of any patrolling guards or citizens to do it yourself. Are you an assassin? A rival?”

They shook their head soundlessly.

“Are you one of Mjoll’s people?”

They shook their head again, but with a little more feeling.

“Well, I don’t have all day. Best finish me off here and let me meet my maker.”

“Won’t you put up a fight?”

“Aye, I could. I could say it was self-defense, if you strike first. Though I doubt they’d believe me. You could say the same. Either way, I’m a dead man and there’s no getting around it,” he shrugged, a slow and heavy motion. He carried a lot of weight these days, and it was starting to become apparent it was too much to bear. “But I’m in a considerably fair-weather mood, and I don’t intend to make it hard for you.”

“Oh, it’s just like you to go about and make things several times harder,” they snapped, their words unexpectedly strange… and personal. Brynjolf frowned. Now why would they say such a thing?

“I couldn’t let them do it,” they went on slowly. “I knew the chances of stopping them were slim, but I did it anyway. How could I not? I couldn’t stand there and let them kill--”

“Look, you’re not making a lot of sense here,” Brynjolf said hesitantly. “If you’re not going to do whatever it was you were going to do, I have an execution to get back to.” He began to turn away to begin the confusingly strange amble back to the procession alone and gain every guard’s raised eyebrow through the city. They’d likely run him through before he even made it through the arch.

“You _want_ to die?” they sounded astonished.

He stopped and looked back at them, and for the first time, he felt clearer than he’d had in many months. “Aye, I think I do,” he confirmed. “I’ve lost more than a man should be expected to bear in the last few months… including the woman I loved,” he added softly, realizing as the words were spoken he’d finally begun to accept – as begrudgingly as it were – that _she_ was gone. “Death would be a mercy.”

The guard stepped forward and unsheathed their sword, motioning for him to face them. Despite his last uttered words, he still braced himself in preparation against the fatal blow.

But to his confusion, they carefully cut through the bindings before returning it to its scabbard. He flexed his hands slowly, feeling blood rushing back into his fingers, and looked up at the guard. They stared back at him, then lifted their hands to their helmet. There was a moment’s hesitation, then they pulled it off in one smooth motion.

Russet brown hair spilled free, the ends curling around their small, slender shoulders. He could pick out highlights of gold and copper amidst the rich woodsy colour. They tugged off a glove, exposing a hand marked along the back with small scars, and raked back their hair from their face with their fingers.

One finger bore a silver ring, etched with small engravings, worn and old.

Brynjolf felt a jolt in his stomach at its significance.

He saw her face. A spray of freckles, the colour of sea-soaked sand, dappled across the bridge of her nose and scattered into the shadow-cast skin of her neck. A small scar puckered above her wide brow and another split a lighter-coloured ring in her lower lip. Her forest-green eyes sang with fear and rapture.

Eonwe.

“Bryn,” she said, her voice low. His ears rang with the sound of it, and he jerked away, as though he had been burnt. That voice – the sound of _her_ voice. How… no, it wasn’t possible. It _wasn’t_ possible!

“No,” he rasped. A mirage surely, or a dream – it _had_ to be. “No, it can’t be you.”

“Bryn,” she repeated, a little louder, one hand lifting in a calming manner. “Hold on, it’s-”

“ _Stop haunting me!_ ”

Her attempts to ease him vanished abruptly, and she hung back uncertainly, confusion creasing a line between her furrowing brows.

“I’m not a spirit, or a ghost,” she insisted. “I’m real--”

He staggered backwards blindly, shaking his head. “Leave me alone,” he mumbled. She wasn’t real, she wasn’t flesh and bone and blood. If he touched her, his hand would pass right through her; mist in the air, an ethereal hallucination sent to drive him mad. He wondered if the axe had already swung down and had separated his head from his neck. He could be trapped in a purgatory with her soul, forever to haunt him, until he was a shriveled thread of the man he used to be.

The familiar grey cloak of depression draped over his thoughts at the idea, and he closed his eyes to shut out the sight of her, willing for isolation. She swore, a soft curse under her breath.

“Bryn… no, just – listen… _Brynjolf_.” Frustration swelled and she raised her voice, distressed and desperate. “Damnit, _look at me!_ ”

She wasn’t – she couldn’t be… she was _dead_. Burnt, ashes on the four winds; caking grey between his fingers, her soul released. _Dead!_ She was still there, the edges of her hair hardly brushing her shoulders, frizzled from the encasing helmet. A few strands caught in the wind, a bright umber in the sun.

“I’m – it’s me,” she flushed with guilt. “I’m alive. Please – it’s me. Bryn, I’m… I’m so sorry. Damn – I’m…” she quickly wiped her eyes, where tears began to brim along her sweeping lashes, glittering like diamonds as they caught the sun. Rainbows danced on her cheeks. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. It wasn’t going to be like this.”

“B-but you’re dead. You – you can’t be…” His mind was blank, and he felt as though the blood had drained from his body. “You… I saw you die. I watched you _burn_ on the pyre.”

“I _know_. But I’m here. I really am _alive_. Please,” she begged, reaching out and taking his hand. He inhaled sharply at the contact – real, honest contact. He wanted to pull away and he did, but she held on, staying with him, refusing to let go. Haunting him still. A hallucination _surely_. She lifted his hand to her chest and pressed his palm over her breast, over her heart. Her eyes were steady on his face.

Her heart thudded beneath his hand, each beat solid and strong, a drumbeat singing in her blood. He staggered but didn’t pull his hand away; he might have fallen, if not for her hand around his wrist. He felt hard bone and soft, pliable flesh beneath his palm, warm beneath the rough sash – true as the beat of life. _Alive_ , it whispered to him. _I’m alive_.

Brynjolf took in the little details, scouring her face with a starving eye, taking in every new scar or sun-kissed freckle, the lightest of wrinkles around her darkly-lashed eyes, the chapped lower lip a little fuller than the top, the olive skin darkened a touch and tighter over the delicate bones of her face. He distinctly remembered when she came back from Cidhna Mine, gaunt and sickly, sunken eyes and hair shorn down to messy tufts sprouting from her scalp. It was a face he’d barely recognized but was filled with such aching joy at seeing again, and here he was presented with it again, tanned and healthy. More beautiful than the sun. It hurt to see and yet… and yet.

“I didn’t die,” she said. “I didn’t… I thought I was dead, too. Then I wasn’t. I woke up, and the Dawnguard found me and took me to the fort. I couldn’t leave – they thought I was an abomination. I only left a few days ago and I – I didn’t know about-” She paused, swallowing hard. He stared at her, stunned to silence. “I found mercenaries. I overheard them talking about the Guild and I… I killed them but… I…” Here she paused, a strange look on her face, as though she was registering her words. Brynjolf barely heard them; their meaning was lost to him. It was only the sound of her voice, her lips soft and pink, not lifeless grey, speaking words – _alive!_

“I needed to get here, to protect Elisif from the vampires… then I saw you,” she smiled, and his heart shattered to see it. Her smile. Her beautiful smile. Gods, how he’d missed it. “I was so close and yet I couldn’t – we couldn’t…”

He recalled the woman at the library door, her eyes glinting behind the porcelain mask. It had been her. _Her._ He’d not recognized her – he wouldn’t have; even now his mind rebelled, denying her presence. She was dead… she was _supposed_ to be dead but here she was, standing in front of him, holding his hand to her heart, its every beat part of an ancient song. The promise of life.

Eonwe was alive.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before we begin, beloved readers, I'd like to express my gratitude for all the overwhelmingly positive messages on the story, especially the last chapter. It is a relief and a joy to see how these characters are accepted and loved as they are. For a game approaching its sixth year since release, it's great to see it still strong in the gaming and writing communities. I will continue to work away at Eonwe's story for as long as you'll have her, and although there will eventually be an end, I am delighted to have met so many fellow Skyrim fans. Now onto the next part of the story... 
> 
> Dedicated to P and Marilyn. I mentioned The-Place-That-Shall-Not-Be-Named in this one.

It was the most petrifying moment in her life thus far as Eonwe reached up and pulled the helmet off her head, casting aside the shadow over her identity and letting in the light. She waited with a growing sense of despondency as Brynjolf seemed to still to the point she was sure he’d stopped breathing.

When she said his name, he came to life, eyes sparking with a volatile denial that frightened her. When she moved closer to him he warded her off, fear and anger spiking in his demand.

And she snapped, her distress giving to frustration, and she shouted at him. He quieted, his face slack with shock, eyes round as it seemed to finally occur to him it was quite possible she was as real as the sky was blue. Her eyes brimmed with tears, blinding her; they dripped down her cheeks, sparkling like tiny stars. He remained confused, keeping her at a distance every time she inched closer and he shifted away. She couldn’t do this, her panicked mind flailing at the possibility of his refusal to believe the truth standing right there in front of him. She couldn’t bear to see him so scared of her…

Eonwe grasped his hand and pressed it to her breast, over the th-thump of her wildly beating heart, and she saw his face change as his shoulders went lax and realization crossed his face. There was no more distance, no more space to hide themselves in; she clung to his hand, holding him to her, steadying herself against his weight just as surely as he was with her. The reality grew with every pulse of her blood through the chambers of her heart.

The words tumbled past her lips, readily explaining _why_. He just stared at her with his beseechingly green gaze. She feared she wasn’t getting through to him; she feared her words were falling on deaf ears. “…Then I saw you,” she heard herself saying, a smile betraying the glow of happiness locked away in her heart, where she had held all that was dear to her for nigh on half a year. “I was so close and yet I couldn’t – we couldn’t…”

Eonwe saw something register, and he pulled his hand away from her, curling back into the shell she thought she’d begun to draw him from. She watched the black void swallow the light in his eyes and, to her abrupt horror, he turned away.

As though she were no more than a stranger.

“W-where are you going?”

“That’s my concern, lass,” he told her, his voice wooden, his words hollow.

“You’re not going back there!” Eonwe exclaimed fearfully, chasing after him. “Please, you can’t!”

“Aye, I can!” he snarled, whirling on her. She shrank back, a gasp stuttering in her throat, as he towered over her. She vividly recalled how frightening he could be when he was furious, and he was positively livid. “And you won’t tell me what to do. You don’t have that right.”

Eonwe felt as though she had been smashed into the ground. “What?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, the line between his brows deep with frustration. “Right about now, I’m thinking a good knock on the head might cause things to start making sense,” he muttered. “And if the headsman happens to lop my head off in the same blow, it might be for the better.”

“How can you say that?” Eonwe demanded, horrified. “Can’t you hear yourself?”

“I can hear myself perfectly fine,” he snapped, turning his back and striding across the courtyard. She followed frantically, robbed of all sense except to prevent him from making it back to the execution. She couldn’t find the words, so she simply kept pace behind him, her head whirling.

“Let me explain,” she began tentatively.

“There’s nothing you can say to change my mind. A few months from now you’ll disappear and turn up dead. Or not dead. A few months after, you’ll come back to life so we can start this whole fucking thing all over again.” He glanced back at her briefly, completely irate. “How much is a man expected to put up with? I can’t do this anymore.”

Abruptly, she reached the end of her limit. “Does your life mean _nothing_ to you?” Eonwe cried. “Do I not matter anymore?”

“I never said that,” he uttered, looking away quickly. “You’ll always matter. But it isn’t the same between us. We aren’t the same.”

“How is it any different? Us arguing… that hasn’t changed.” She meant for light-heartedness, but humour failed her. Brynjolf closed his eyes with a sigh as guilt washed over him.

“At what point did you stop caring?” she dared to ask.

“It’s not that I don’t care, lass. It’s that I don’t _want_ to.”

A long silence drew out and neither of them attempted to speak. Eonwe was trying to think of something to say that wasn’t gibberish when she noticed a couple of guards moving with purpose across the courtyard outside Castle Dour. “I’ve been found out,” she said quietly, gesturing with a flick of her head. Brynjolf followed her gaze and moved into the shadow of the wall, watching them warily.

“We need to get somewhere safe,” he said.

“We?” she repeated.

Noticing his careless slip, he merely pulled away and began walking, tracing the route to the safehouse in his head. The close footsteps behind, unsteady in the oversized boots, brought upon a strange feeling he quickly quelled, and he and Eonwe disappeared into the shadows without a word.

∞

The safehouse was little more than a single room furnished with a few folded cots, some wooden boxes and crates filled with food and bottles, and a small woodstove for cooking and warmth. Brynjolf bolted the door and went to the windows, peering out to make sure they’d not been followed. Eonwe looked in one of the crates, seeing several bundles of herbs and bottled remedies coated in a fine layer of dust, among other tonics for emergencies. It looked as though the place hadn’t been used in several weeks.

“What is this place, exactly?”

“If we can’t make it back to the Guild, we come to one of these safehouses,” he explained, turning away from the window and dropping into a chair, rubbing his face with both hands. “We use the other one more often, and it has more resources at hand. I haven’t been here since we first arrived in the city,” he added, looking around.

“How long ago was that?”

“The end of Morning Star. You’ve heard what happened, you said?” he inquired, dismissing idle chatter in favour of getting to the point, and she nodded. “How many mercenaries did you come across?”

“Eight—no, nine.”

“And they’re dead?” he sought confirmation, not details, and she nodded again. Her face was perfectly emotionless, but her eyes were guarded; she was withholding something, but Brynjolf didn’t have any interest in what it was for the moment. He leaned back, sighing heavily. “Mjoll will have noticed by now. She’s got eyes everywhere. Were you followed?” he asked sharply.

“Would I know if I were?” she demanded, skin crawling in irritation. She didn’t like the look he was giving her, and she held up her hands in surrender. “No, I didn’t notice anyone. But I wasn’t exactly paying attention to people following _me_.”

“You mentioned the Dawnguard?” he changed topics swiftly. “The vampire hunters?”

“They found me. After I… Look, how many questions are you going to ask?”

“As many as I decide to ask,” he answered bluntly. Her jaw clenched reactionarily.

“You don’t trust me,” she sighed, rubbing the line in her forehead. “Nothing has changed.”

“I wouldn’t expect it to in your position.”

“Look. I came back from Cidhna Mine,” she said. “I’ve come back from so much. Brynjolf, there’s been far too many times in my life where I should have died… but didn’t. I don’t know how – or why – I’m alive, but I am.”

“Do you expect me to be comforted?” he growled, true anger darkening his voice. It was better than the casual detachment, she thought privately. “Do you expect me to let you back in without a second thought? This – you being here – is beyond me, lass. I don’t know how you’re alive, and I’m half expecting to wake up from another dream only to realize you’re still gone. I saw you lying there in the snow…” he stopped suddenly, looking away from her to the floor.

The silence drew out uncomfortably but she didn’t dare ask him to go on, instead deciding to hold her stance in the argument, in the hopes she might make him _start_ to understand what she was going through. “I know an apology doesn’t make up for this. But I have nothing to apologize for,” she told him. “And I’m just as confused – and frightened – of what me still being alive means. I don’t know what happened to me. I suppose it’s just a part of being Dragonborn.

“But you don’t know how hard this is for me. You don’t know the _half_ of it. I’m afraid I’ll drop down dead tomorrow,” she confided, not meeting his eyes when he glanced up. “I don’t know how much time I have left. But… but I won’t spend it arguing with you.

“I won’t stay if you don’t want me here,” she concluded meekly, the strength of her argument dying like a pinched-out candle. “We’ve done well enough without each other.”

There was another drawn out silence, one in which she noticed the ache in her legs and the knot in her shoulder. She rolled her arm, hearing the joints crunching. She wanted to sit but she figured the crates would as soon break rather than bear her weight. She didn’t need to feel embarrassed or wind up with splinters in her backside. She felt like a mammoth in the room, under observation and completely vulnerable, more exposed than if she were without clothing. Eonwe briefly wondered how Brynjolf felt; did he feel the same as her? Was he afraid of her, or was it she who was the frightened one?

“Where will you go?” he asked softly, at last, breaking the building fog of tension.

“The world doesn’t need to know the Dragonborn’s alive,” she said. He stared at her wordlessly and Eonwe stared back unflinchingly. “I’d disappear, live under a new name, go somewhere I’m not recognized. I think it would be better that way.”

“Just like you thought it was better if I didn’t know who you are,” he said with a touch of accusation.

“The less who know, the safer people are. The more they don’t have to rely on a hero who might not be around forever.”

“Why did you stop the execution?” Brynjolf asked, his frank question catching Eonwe by surprise.

“You would have done the same,” she began flippantly. “Or, at least, I would _hope_ you’d do the same.”

“Aye? Is that right?” he rose from the chair, standing over her, his face unreadable. Eonwe tilted her head back, holding his gaze steadily. His eyes were a sharper green than she’d remembered, but she supposed time had distorted her memories. He looked different – he was taller than she recalled, and his hair had more copper in it than red. A few silver hairs were hidden within the russet and gold of his beard, betraying the time slipping by, and she wondered if she’d been cause for a few of them. How much pain she had caused was fathomless for her to comprehend.

“I would have come back sooner if I could,” she heard herself saying regretfully. “I was supposed to protect you. Instead, I left you defenseless.”

“We never saw it coming,” he said. “I wasn’t there when the attack began. Mjoll had already cleared out the cistern. I managed to get Rune and Sapphire out of the city. Vex was the only other to make it,” he told her. She could see the pain it caused to recall the night months prior; a wound that hadn’t yet healed, nor would anytime soon. “Vex said they took Delvin. She’s been searching for him ever since.”

“And everyone else?” Eonwe asked hollowly, and was disturbed when Brynjolf merely shook his head. More than of the Thieves Guild was gone, in a single attack arranged by one woman. One ruthless and capable woman, but just one all the same.

She remembered Tonilia’s ring, hastily tucked into the guard armor for safekeeping, and she withdrew it now, handing it to Brynjolf. His face softened immediately at the sight of the dark golden band set with the black gem. “Vex told us they started with Vekel and Ton.”

“I’m sorry--” she began.

Suddenly, Brynjolf raised a finger to his lips, indicating her to be quiet. Eonwe caught the tail-end of a creaking step and looked to the door in alarm, her hand dropping to the hilt of the legionnaire sword at her side. It was large and clunky and lacked a cross guard – what good was that? – but it had a broad sharp blade and would do if someone came through the door.

But still, her heart raced, blood pumping adrenaline to her brain. Had they been found? Her eyes flew to Brynjolf, seeing the same thoughts there, and looked to the window. There was still time to escape—

The door clunked softly as someone attempted to open it, followed by a series of knocks in a numerical pattern. Someone spoke aloud, their voice muffled from where Eonwe was standing, and Brynjolf apparently seemed to relax. Waving his hand to Eonwe to stand down, he unlocked the bolt and two elves strode into the safehouse. She heard one of them mutter with a strong Valenwood accent, “‘Bout time.”

They were both thieves, one a Bosmer and the other a Dunmer. The wood elf was slender, her skin a woodsy green-brown, her ears long and tapering on either side of her head, adorned with an assortment of coloured rings and bone piercings. The Guild leathers were somewhat different, Eonwe noticed with no small amount of surprise: The traditional brown seemed darker, paired with the ivory sleeves of a tunic, over woolen trousers and boots halfway up the calf. There was the presence of light chainmail, wrapping around the waist and protecting the upper arms beneath the layered leather pauldrons. The armor had been reshaped for the sake of defense, to give the thieves a better advantage in a fight.

The Bosmer’s flinty red eyes fixed on Eonwe in suspicion, before she stepped aside and let the Dunmer come forward. She began to address Brynjolf, her tone suggesting a manner of urgency, when she suddenly fell silent upon seeing Eonwe.

Despite herself, Eonwe smiled in relieved delight and stepped forward, the Dunmer’s amethyst eyes rounding to moons with unsuppressed shock. “Karliah,” she greeted warmly, unable to disguise the rush of affection in her voice.

“By Nocturnal!” Karliah exclaimed in a whisper, crossing the room and throwing her arms around Eonwe, gathering her in a most unexpected embrace. “You’re alive! How?” she drew back, slender brows nearly meeting as she frowned, eyes searching her lost friend’s face; they lingered on the new scars dabbing Eonwe’s face, pausing at her lip and her brow.

“I’m trying to figure that out myself,” she admitted sheepishly, eyeing Brynjolf past the elf’s shoulder. “How did you know we were here?”

“Ilandriel informed me of the executions the moment I arrived,” Karliah nodded to the Bosmer, who was presently raking her eyes over Eonwe in unconcealed disapproval. “Brynjolf, I’ve found Delvin. She’s holding him at Snowpoint Beacon, an old watchtower just south of Dawnstar.” She withdrew a letter from her pocket and handed it to him to read.

As he read, Ilandriel slid closer to Karliah and said in a lowered tone, though it was loud enough for Eonwe to hear clearly in the small space of the safehouse, “Who is she? Can we trust her?”

“Eonwe is one of us,” Karliah answered firmly. “She’s an old friend of ours.”

“You never mentioned her,” Ilandriel said, and Eonwe shifted uncomfortably, hearing the subtle hostility resonating from the elf’s skeptical tone. Brynjolf paused in reading the letter, glancing up briefly. Karliah cleared her throat delicately, and gestured to the door.

“Make sure the route is safe, Ilandriel,” she ordered. The wood elf sent one final glare at Eonwe, who made the effort to not look up from pretending the vaguely interesting spot on the floor was far more worth her attention, and she only lifted her head once the Bosmer was gone.

“New recruit?” she asked brightly, hoping to conceal her discomfort.

“She’s been with us for a few months. We found her living as a pickpocket on the streets after getting off a ship from Valenwood,” Karliah answered. “She’s a little… _untrusting_ of new faces.” Brynjolf had long since finished reading the letter and looked far more conflicted than when he’d begun.

“We need to return to the Guild and prepare to get to Snowpoint Beacon as soon as possible,” he said. “The lass and I will go.”

“No, she’ll go with me,” Karliah corrected firmly, ignoring him when he began to protest. “You are the Guild Master, Brynjolf. I’m not going over this again.”

“By rights, she’s Guild Master. You told me Gallus appointed her as leader. As did Mercer,” Brynjolf pointed out.

“Are you passing your job onto _me?_ ” Eonwe exclaimed. “I’m back for not _two_ minutes and this is what I’ve to look forward to? Cleaning up _your_ mess?”

Karliah made an impatient sound. “We can worry about who’s in charge when we return,” she snapped. “There is no time for bickering. I suggest we get back to the Guild and prepare to leave. Alright?”

Neither of them were concerned with arguing against Karliah’s sound logic, and as the Dunmer led the way out of the safehouse, Eonwe couldn’t help but bristle as Brynjolf passed her by. She fixed her eyes angrily on his back, suppressing the urge to kick him in the backside.

To think she’d missed him, the bloody scoundrel.

∞

The Thieves Guild had taken up residence beneath the Temple of the Divines, in the ancient catacombs that’d once belonged to Potema, the Wolf Queen of Solitude. Entering via a small side door off to the side of the vast stone building, it occurred to Eonwe she’d never been inside. Little wonder, considering she wasn’t religious.

And yet a quiet hush fell over her, and the need to be silent gripped her as she gazed at the lavishly decorated walls hung with elegant tapestries depicting the Divines, and the sweeping banners falling from ceiling to floor. Stained glass windows scattered rainbows on every surface. The wooden pews were empty and the hall was devoid of priests, but the presence of an otherworldly being seemed to flood the room with a powerful serenity unlike any feeling Eonwe had ever known in the mortal world. They followed Karliah down into what appeared to be a storage room and to a steel-barred gate. The Bosmer – Ilandriel – waited there expectantly, but her expression immediately darkened at the sight of Eonwe.

A look between she and Karliah seemed to stop the wood elf from making any comment, and she led the way down a narrow hall and through a crumbled wall tucked out of sight by an arrangement of large crates covered torn burlap sacks and sailcloth. Eonwe didn’t miss the small diamond carving in the side of a crate, right next to her head when she caught it in the corner of her eye: The Thieves Guild. Inconspicuous, only visible to those who knew its meaning. Eonwe hesitated before following them into the gloom, wondering what waited on the other side.

Nothing.

A touch disappointed, she trailed after familiar broad shoulders and further into the catacombs. Passing through rooms stacked with old furniture not seen for the last era or two, and designed in a fashion far older than any present building in Skyrim, they at last reached a woman standing on the other side of a barred passage.

The woman was built like a warrior, her thick blonde hair raked back from a savage face and shaven up one side; one eye was caught in the ugly scar stretching from temple to the opposite cheek and over the broken nose. She wore chainmail and boiled leather, and a mallet was firmly attached to her back. Her one good eye studied Brynjolf and Karliah for a moment, then she reached out to tug on the pull chain. In doing so, she noticed Eonwe lurking behind them. “Who’s this?”

“She’s with us, Siobhan,” Karliah answered quietly. “Let us pass.”

Without a second word, the passage opened with a slithering metal sound and they entered. Eonwe met the eye of the hulking woman, who simply took up watch again and ignored them.

It was a tavern, furnished with a few tables and chairs, a mounted stone fireplace like the one in The Winking Skeever serving as an oven. It was warmly lit with candles and wall sconces. Around the corner was a long bar counter, the shelf behind lined with coloured-glass bottles. The air was musty and damp, and it reminded Eonwe of The Ragged Flagon. She almost expected to see Vekel behind the counter, and she blamed the smoke from the sconces for making her eyes water.

The tables bore signs of use; a deck of cards and a few half-emptied bottles were scattered on one, a book left open on another. Karliah sat down at the table in the corner, motioning to Eonwe to sit when she didn’t. She took up the chair across from them and folded her hands in her lap beneath the table’s edge. Brynjolf murmured something inconsequential, disappearing down the hall and further into the catacombs.

“So, this is your new place,” Eonwe ventured, glancing around at the stark bearings. “Is it safe?”

“It will have to do for now,” Karliah said, unbraiding her hair and running her fingers through the dark locks, removing knots as she went. “Eonwe, before he comes back, I need to know what’s going on. I need to know how you’re here.”

Eonwe sighed. “I don’t know how to start--”

“What do you last remember?” Karliah cut in. “Will that be easier to start with?”

Well, there was no hesitation in her answer. “Alduin. I fought him.”

“And…?”

“I…” she swallowed. “He killed me. I know he did. I went to Sovngarde _alive_ , Karliah. I was there, body and soul. I don’t think people are supposed to do that. If I physically died there, then I don’t know what happened.”

Karliah frowned, and it seemed difficult for her to ask Eonwe to keep talking. She did, and as she poured out the truth to the Dunmer, it became easier.

“…and Akatosh brought me back to life so I could win. I defeated Alduin and Tsun returned me to Nirn, and that’s where everything stopped.” She rubbed her eyes; she’d not slept at all the night past, in acquiring the guard uniform and deciding how to interrupt the execution. “The next thing I knew, I was waking up in Lake Honrich, and the Dawnguard found me.”

The rest of the story was brief – how they thought she was some kind of demon, how they eventually decided to have her spy on Volkihar from the inside, and her finding Lord Harkon’s daughter, Serana. “We had to find the Elder Scrolls and Auriel’s Bow to stop the prophecy. Everything was alright in the end, but… I decided to move on from them. I’d only agreed to help them fight the vampires.”

“My last job was here, in Solitude. Jarl Elisif was their target but…” she shook her head. “I didn’t save her. She’s dead because of me. I tried to warn her but she wouldn’t listen. She believed her court would protect her. And the Guild,” she added bitterly. “Maybe if I’d been here. I could’ve…”

“Eonwe, you can’t save everyone,” Karliah murmured sympathetically. “Sometimes, we have to take things into our own hands and see what happens. Don’t blame yourself if something outside of your control happens.” Her eyes softened with grief. “I spent years blaming myself for Gallus’ death. Sometimes, I still do. I would give nearly anything for him to be alive, but what might it change? It might be better, but it might be worse.”

“Aye, she’s right, lass.” Eonwe jumped as Brynjolf rounded the corner. She didn’t know for how long he’d been listening. He caught her gaze. “I found a spare set of leathers. Take the stairs up. It’s the last room on the left.”

“Yeah. Thanks,” she stood quickly, and Karliah reached across the table, catching her hand. The Dunmer smiled faintly.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she said, squeezing affectionately before letting go. Eonwe felt her throat tighten with emotions and she quickly turned away, heading down the hall.

∞

The leathers were surprisingly comfortable, fitted to compensate the maneuverability a thief relied on while providing a limited but required level of defense in combat. The armor was padded in all the right places, handstitched from sturdy materials, and the chainmail was sewn directly into the leather to keep it from making too much noise. The set Eonwe slipped into was more of grey-brown, and the mark of the Thieves Guild had been burned into the shoulders, an undetailed dark mark unless examined closely.

It was as she was tugging the cotton tunic over her head she felt eyes on her back, and she glanced behind her as the cloth covered her exposed skin. Brynjolf leaned against the wall, his frown masking the unreadable expression on his face. She knew at once he’d seen the scars, the dark lines tearing across her back from where Alduin had nearly wrenched her in half with his maw.

Whatever he was thinking, he’d quickly managed to conceal it, but she was tired of seeing people’s pitiful reactions, least of all his. They were just war wounds by this point. Everyone had a scar to tell a story.

“Don’t waste your time pretending you care,” she barely kept from snapping, turning her back and gathering her hair into a quick ponytail. “I don’t need your pity.”

“What? You assume I don’t care?” he asked, earnestly surprised.

“You said so yourself: ‘Things have changed between us’,” she quoted haughtily, finishing dressing and pushing by to meet with Karliah. Finding and securing Delvin mattered more for the time being. A sigh of exasperation followed her.

“Lass, I know I must have sounded a little harsh before, but--”

“A little?” she repeated, swinging around. “How about ‘completely’? Gods, Bryn! You aren’t the only one who’s suffered losses here. Everyone in the Guild has forsaken their home. Karliah has been through _leagues_ more than either of us, and I can’t imagine what Delvin’s facing, or even if he’s still alive.

“And then there’s the people you don’t even know about!” she exclaimed. “I fought a war to keep a psychopath from putting out the sun in the sky only months ago. A war no one knows about, against a threat no one could be bothered to worry about save themselves. We had losses, too, and we made sacrifices to see the threat dealt with.

“If it were you who’d died, I wouldn’t have thrown everything that mattered away,” she continued viscerally. “The Guild might have kept its shit together if I were in charge!”

“Are you saying _I’m_ to blame for the Guild falling apart?” he exclaimed incredulously.

“Yes, that’s _exactly_ what I’m saying. Karliah’s right. _You_ are the Guild Master, and _you_ are in charge. Start acting like it!” she cried. “It’s your fault all this happened. You were supposed to protect them. I _had_ to kill Alduin. I _had_ to leave!”

“No, you didn’t!”

“Yes, I did. And you can’t go back on it now. You _let_ me leave. If you didn’t want me to go, you should have fought harder for me to stay. But if I _hadn’t_ gone, we’d either be dead or in fear of dying.”

“How’s that any different than right now?” he demanded.

“It’s better than the alternative!”

“At least we’d be together. At least you wouldn’t have gone ahead and got yourself killed!” he shouted, never minding to keeping his voice low.

“It wasn’t my intention to die!” she yelled. “Shit, do you really think I went to try and kill myself?”

“From what I remember, I think it might have crossed your mind.” He crossed his arms. Eonwe’s mouth fell open in outrage.

“Are you accusing me of… no. _No_. We are _not_ doing this again! You don’t trust me – you didn’t then and you still don’t now. For _bloody_ sakes!” she pressed her face into her hands, shaking with frustration. “I thought this was over. I thought--”

“Lass, if I didn’t know you any better, I’d think you were more than a tad insane,” his voice reached her, slow and tired. He was as broken as she was. “But then again,” he added, much more softly. “I never really knew you, did I?”

It occurred to her that in the time they’d known each other, they’d spent very little of it together. He was right: They _didn’t_ know each other. A cold wind brushed across her back, setting her teeth on edge.

“I suppose you didn’t,” she said icily. “And it’s a little too late to start trying now.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“You’ve made it quite clear you don’t want me here,” Eonwe muttered. “I know you said you wanted to stop caring, but did you stop loving me, too? Were you even _honest_ … or is honesty _still_ too hard to come by?”

“Why do you ask?” His short, brusque questions made her impatient and annoyed, but she was already tired of fighting the same _damn_ fight. Would there ever be a day they got past this? Would there ever be a “they” again? Eonwe doubted it. She didn’t really want it, seeing as things were now.

“I just- I…” she struggled momentarily. “It was the only thing that kept me going sometimes. I never forgot. But if it wasn’t true, if you don’t…” she faltered. How could she bring herself to ask? What if he said no?

What was the _point?_

“Do I still love you?” Brynjolf asked. She half-wondered if he were asking himself the same question; it sounded like it.

“Did you mean it in the first place?”

“I’m a thief, not a liar,” he was on the defensive, voice spiking with anger. “How can you even ask me that?”

“But do you still?” she was uncomfortably aware she sounded like she was begging. She supposed she was. Perhaps a little closure would be enough. “Do you love me, Brynjolf?”

“Do you?”

There was something in how he said it that gave her pause. The hairs along her arms stood straight up, as though an electrical current had rushed beneath her skin. She felt her tongue go numb and her mouth go dry, and she could only stare at him with wide eyes, unable to speak.

How could he ask her? How? _How?_

Then he was pushing by, carefully remote. “You’d best not keep Karliah waiting. Bring Delvin back safe,” Brynjolf said emotionlessly, careful not to betray the subtle trembling of his voice.

By the time Eonwe mustered the courage to speak, he was already gone.

∞

All Brynjolf could see were the scars.

The bottle of mead was half-empty – or half-full, but he was no optimist – and the amber liquid in the brown glass was a hazy background. Thick red scars, bumpy and jagged, chasing around her waist and chest like the tails of serpents. It was all too easy to imagine the fearsome black dragon clutching her helpless body between his razor jaws, shredding her apart as she screamed—

He’d not meant to intrude upon her. But he had, and now the backs of his eyes were imprinted with the cruel red stripes marring her skin.

She thought he didn’t care. He _did_ care – he yearned to fight off all her demons, to heal her with his own hands. If he could there was no doubt in his mind he would try. But he was just a simple man – no, he was less. He was a thief and a liar. She’d called him so. To know how she saw him, to know what she _thought_ of him…Brynjolf felt ashamed to be less of a man than she deserved.

Here she was a hero, a dragon slayer, the saviour of hundreds – if not thousands. The world continued to turn because of her own sacrifices. She had told him it was her destiny, her fate to defend the world from its end.

And to think he would have forced her to stay.

Brynjolf argued against himself, clenching his hand tightly around the mead bottle’s neck. To keep her from harm, from _death?_ He would do everything within reason to protect her. He knew it as well as he knew he belonged underground amongst thieves; it was in his very nature. _It was who he was_.

And she was everything he wasn’t. She bore the strength of warriors and the courage of legends. She challenged dragons and demons of every kind, not to say of her own personal battles. She had suffered grief and terror from the time of her childhood; she had known loss and loneliness her entire life. And somehow, she found the ability to lay down her fears and take on a fight Brynjolf knew he never could.

No one could tell her no. Death couldn’t hold her down. Brynjolf shook his head, bewildered at the reality he faced; what power did he have over her? What _right_ did he have to say anything to a woman like that? It was as though he were trying to talk to one of the Divines themselves.

There were long scratches in the table’s surface, and he idly traced them. Had a dagger drawn them, or fingernails? The sight of them made him shiver.

Off again she was, racing headlong into a danger he felt responsible for causing, taking matters that were none of her concern into her own hands. He cursed himself quietly, taking a long swig from the bottle. It should’ve been him out there, searching for Delvin and bringing down the tyranny of Mjoll. Instead it was her, willingly picking up the pieces he had shattered, fixing the damage he had let happen. He knew he should have been more vigilant. The Guild depended on him now.

Aye, he thought blandly, and with no small measure of guilt. He didn’t want to be Guild Master. The title was officially hers, and he’d tried to return it to her, but not without ulterior notions. Knowing he’d tried to place even more weight on her left him miserable. And to the woman he supposedly cared for? How pathetic.

How utterly shameful and selfish could a man be?

_But do you still? Do you love me, Brynjolf?_

He could still envision the devastation in her eyes when he didn’t answer, when he turned the question around and demanded the same of her. She’d never said; she’d never spoken such words to him. Did she feel the same for him as he felt for her? How could she believe there was a chance he _didn’t_ love her? He felt his hands tighten, mead in a white-knuckled grip. Why was it so _complicated_ for them to say--

The bottle exploded in his palm and he jerked upright, seizing his hand with a pained gasp as pieces bounced off the edge of the table and shattered on the floor. Shards of glass pierced through the skin of his right hand, blood oozing from the mess of jagged wounds. Thick droplets plopped onto the table surface, staining the wood. He stood and went to the bar counter, fishing up a bundle of cloths. He’d not even noticed how tightly he was squeezing the bottle…

It was a long process of drawing out each dangerously-sharp fragment with no more than his blunt fingers. He dropped them onto the table into the small puddles of blood, wincing and spitting curses at the tedious progress. The candles on the table had burned an inch lower by the time he was done. Certain he’d removed all the glass, he wrapped his hand in the cloths and bent his head with a long sigh ending on a softly uttered, “Fuck.”

It wasn’t necessarily said in regard of the broken bottle.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With a new month comes a new chapter. Happy October everyone.

There appeared to be no signs of activity surrounding Snowpoint Beacon, but there was the snowstorm to take into account, seeing as the poor visibility was more hindering for the two thieves than actually assisting them in remaining unseen.

The trek to the dilapidated tower had begun after taking leave of Solitude’s harbor onboard of a small fishing boat, where Eonwe and Karliah had loathingly watched the storm clouds darkening the horizon. The skies were thick with white flakes long before Dawnstar’s port came hazily into view and, seeing to a brief respite just long enough to warm their frozen hands over the roaring hearth, they’d taken the opportunity to finish the conversation that’d begun on the small vessel over the choppy black water.

For one thing, Eonwe rejoiced at Karliah’s patience and willingness to listen, not to mention the overall approval and positively regarding her resurrection post-dragon slaying. They spoke quietly but with a familiar pattern, reconnecting quickly and rekindling the beginnings of the friendship that’d been left mangled after her departure from the Guild some nine months earlier. It was strange, she thought privately as the Dunmer glossed over the length of time in only a few brief sentences, to think she’d been away from these familiar faces for a few months short of a year. It felt longer in some respects; traversing the Forgotten Vale to recover the fabled Auriel’s Bow seemed a lifetime ago, and yet it had only been midspring when she and Serana retrieved it.

But it also felt longer, as though years had slipped between her fingers, no more than grains of sand in a broken hourglass…

Three months to find Alduin’s lair and purge his tyrannical evil from the world. It had been a grueling rush, taking everything and returning nothing; Eonwe had barely slept in her hunt for the Elder Scroll. Her eyes still throbbed from the vision, undoubtedly meant to be performed with a ritual of a sort, and she wondered at how she’d kept her sight. Others had not been so lucky.

She marveled still at the brief glimpse into the past, into the time when dragons ruled the world and the humans fought with steel in their hearts to carve their own way and build a future they could call their own. It was inspiring to look upon the great heroes – Felldir, Hakon, and Gormlaith. She had stood alongside them in Sovngarde, bearing down upon the black beast that had haunted their worlds in ancient days long past and the days to come – the days that were her time.

And now she stood among them, her memory revered by the Nords, her legend to be sung in tavern songs – as the young lass plucked the melody written in honor of the Dragonborn on her lute. Her head was bent low over the instrument, tuning quietly, but Eonwe had heard the song sung aplenty over the fire by bards and warriors alike. The first time she’d heard it played had been startling, as a tavern full of warriors rose to roar the lyrics and a drum was hammered to keep the thundering, powerful pace. The tenth time she heard it sung had been quiet, a warbling voice spoken as though in promise, or perhaps in warning.

“Eonwe, is everything alright?” Karliah nudged her with her elbow. Her purple eyes were unsurprisingly knowing.

“I will be,” she answered, with more frank honesty than she intended. “Once Delvin is safe and sound and we don’t have to trudge around in anymore blizzards, ask me again.” The Dunmer chuckled at that, leading the way to the door, and Eonwe turned away from the heat of the fire with some regret.

A few hours later, they were hunched down behind a littering of boulders near the base of the tower, gazing up at the black shape through the near whiteout. “If only we’d thought ahead of time and worn white,” she said jokingly.

Karliah smiled, soothing any last tension that might have been between them, and comforting Eonwe in a way she didn’t realize she needed. Somewhat more confidant, she turned to the elf and broached the conversation she hated to start but felt she was both obliged and was necessary to approach.

“So, about me dying and coming back.” Eonwe said cautiously, watching the elf’s reaction carefully. “Are you alright with it? I mean, I _know_ it’s a lot to take in, and it’s only been a couple of days since--”

“I’ve seen a lot in my years,” Karliah interrupted, holding up one hand in emphasis. “I’ve been through more than enough strange occurrences to last a lifetime, although I won’t lie: This is one of the stranger ones,” she smiled quickly. “But you don’t need to feel you have to explain yourself to me – or to justify _why_ you’re alive. You’re here now and that’s what counts. But,” she added. “It’s not me you need to worry about.”

“He doesn’t understand. I don’t know he wants to, or if he ever will,” Eonwe said, turning to Karliah in frustration. “Did I do the right thing in coming back?”

“He would be dead otherwise,” Karliah pointed out. “If he isn’t grateful for that, then he’s really lost his way. He’d be a fool to not appreciate the sentiment in some regard, at least.”

“But that’s the problem. He’s so… distant now,” Eonwe murmured, looking up at the tower across the way. “I know it wasn’t going to be sunshine and roses, but I expected _more_ than… well, _whatever_ this is he and I have.”

“He lost you,” Karliah reasoned gently. “And he’s been lost ever since then. He needs to find his way back, and he will. The two of you have something important between you; we all knew how much he loved you. He didn’t have to tell me in Irkngthand because I could quite clearly see it for myself.”

Eonwe blinked. “In Irkngthand?”

Karliah nodded. “When we were separated, he feared you were dead. I might have suggested something and he outright denied it, declaring his feelings for you. I’m not sure if he knew what he’d said, but there was no hesitation, I assure you.”

“Well, his feelings have obviously changed,” Eonwe said bitterly, pushing aside the warm feelings in her chest combating against reason and logic. It _had_ changed, just as it would. But still, questions nagged her, and only the elf could begin to clarify all that’d happened in the last months.

“When it happened… however it happened,” she stumbled over her words. Talking about her own death in past tense was something she doubted she’d ever get used to. “How was he?”

Karliah was quiet for a moment, contemplative as she considered how to answer. Eonwe gave her the time, though she began to fret over asking in the first place: Did she really want to know? Should she? She suddenly thought of her family and how she might react if they returned. A chill ran up her spine as, at the same time, she fiercely – _instinctively_ – denied the impossible. It couldn’t happen, it just _couldn’t!_

Brynjolf’s rejection made all the more sense.

“He was heartbroken at first. I never saw him eat or sleep for the first couple of days. It looked as though he were under a spell,” Karliah said. “I saw the dragon at the lakeside and you lying there, in the snow. I thought you were injured badly and I went to the cistern immediately, to find Brynjolf.

“When he saw you, I think, for a moment, his heart stopped,” she went on, her voice soft against the howling of the storm, but her words held Eonwe as still as ice. “All of us thought you might be alive until--” She stopped, swallowing hard, violet eyes troubled. “He held you, pleading you to wake up, to come back. The dragon told us you asked to be brought there.”

Tears welled up in Eonwe’s eyes. “I asked Odahviing to bring me home,” she said, wiping her eyes and squinting out through the blizzard. The wind chilled the wetness on her cheeks. “What happened then?”

“Alessandra prepared you for the funeral pyre. Most of Riften was there as witness. Brynjolf… he stayed with you until dawn,” Karliah sighed. “None of us tried to convince him to leave.”

It had been early day when she woke at the lakeside. Eonwe wondered if he’d stayed a little longer, would he have seen her come back to life? The question bit at her like a venomous fang, the poison cold in her veins. All these months would have never happened. All this time, he didn’t have to be without—

“Afterwards, he was quiet. He spoke little, even to me. It was Delvin he spent hours with, talking late into the night. Only once the Guild was compromised and we came to Solitude did he start confiding in me.

“It took time before he opened up and asked questions – about mortality, the Nightingales, anything in relation to you without actually _mentioning_ you. He never said your name. Most of us tried not to, to keep from upsetting him further,” Karliah frowned a little. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“No. I… this is all just very--” What was the right word? “Surreal. It’s surreal to hear. But I need it.”

Karliah nodded understandingly. “It was only recently he spoke of you; of seeing you when you weren’t there, or mistaking others for you. I did occasionally, but it went as far as him believing you _were_ there, in a way. Just the other day he confided his fear he was going insane, with the visions and the dreams--”

“Dreams?” Eonwe echoed. “He dreamed of me?”

“He never told me what about. I assume the worst, though,” she sighed. “Once, I heard him talking in his sleep. He said your name and a bunch of other things, nothing I can recall. Nothing important, but seeing as you’re here…” she glanced at Eonwe. “It might be worth it to ask him.”

“Do you think that’s wise?” she asked warily. “I doubt he’ll want to talk to me, considering how we left off.”

“In any case, he’ll be happy to see Delvin with the Guild again,” Karliah nudged her. “I don’t think anyone is patrolling, and we’ve waited for long enough. Let’s go.”

∞

The tower held its breath as the two rogues entered.

Navigation was relatively simple, as there was only one direction: Down.

It was a long and stealthy process, moving between shadows and straining to listen for any occupants on watch. The tower wasn’t very big, and there were only a few small rooms, mostly used for storage or sleeping quarters. A large double door was at the very bottom, but upon checking it, they found it locked and inoperable with the use of a pick.

An indistinguishable muffled sound drew their attention to one of the doors they’d passed by, and they now opened it with great care, peering into the well-lit space.

There was a large rug on the floor, complete with red and yellow embroidery, and gold tassels off either end. It was an exquisite thing, strange to be seen in an old tower supposedly serving as an ordinary prison. A large wooden desk and chair sat upon the rug, a small stack of neatly-arranged books on one side, a cluster of candleholders on the other. In the middle was an open book and, lying precisely in the center was a heavy key.

Eonwe scoffed silently. _Of course_. It was quite possibly the most clichéd concealed trap in the history of traps. Even Karliah appeared amused by the lack of effort, and they entered the room with drawn daggers, waiting for whatever fool was to spring out and attempt to slice open their throats.

But strangely, no one did.

“Well, I’m disappointed,” Eonwe joked in mock-despair, picking up the key and flipping it in her hand. “It’s strange there isn’t anyone here. Did they pick up and move camp, or something?”

“I agree. It _is_ strange,” Karliah said. “This is the place. Unless Mjoll suspected we’d show and moved Delvin to Bannermist Tower?”

“She could have. Or she might be down there in the jail with a knife to Delvin’s throat, waiting until we come through the door,” Eonwe shrugged one shoulder, leading the way out into the hall and fitting the key in the lock. She grinned at Karliah. “Best not disappoint her.”

But even the jail was empty, the cells barren. The floors were strewn with filth and moldy straw, and they eyed the dangling chains and spiked shackles. Blood was dabbed on every surface, and by Gods, _the_ _smell…_

Something in the last cell caught Eonwe’s eye, and she moved closer to the bars to see what it was, an increasing sense of disturb waking to seize her throat in a sick grip.

“Shadows blind us,” Karliah breathed.

A naked woman, her arms pulled high above her head; blood streaked her arms and left dried rivulets down her chest, smeared over breast and belly. Her ribs were dappled with bruises faded purple and black; vicious flowers blooming beneath her broken skin. If not for the layers of damage and grime coating her skin, she might have been as white as marble, her lustrous skin as smooth as a pearl’s. Eonwe knew the bent head and long wisps of white-blonde hair as well as she knew her own reflection, and she unlocked the cell door with a shaking hand.

As gentle as she could be, she lifted the Imperial’s head and bent a little to see her face. Blood gushed over the lip from a smashed nose, dark red crusted around the nostrils and staining the chin. A large weal parted one cheek, and her lower lip bore a dark ring where it had been split. One eye was swollen dark with bruises; it was a surprise the eye was intact, seeing the thin gash almost having severed the eyelid into two. She was a mess, almost past recognition with the amount of swollen tissues, but Eonwe knew her all the same. “Vex,” she whispered, tucking her hair behind one ear – one of the only unaffected parts of her tortured body – and looked back at Karliah. “Help me get her down.”

Vex was a deadweight in her arms when she was unsuspended from the ceiling, and it took both Eonwe and Karliah to hold her upright long enough to lay her on the floor rather than simply drop her. Unhooking the clasp at her neck, Eonwe draped her cloak over the battered form. Vex’s chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, and she twitched as she began to regain consciousness, becoming aware of her surroundings. “We need to get her out of here, Karliah,” Eonwe said. “Delvin isn’t here.”

“It took us hours to get here on foot. It’s sheer luck we made it here in the first place as quickly as we did,” Karliah reasoned. “But we’re going to be walking in the middle of a blizzard through dangerous territory, with the off chance someone might see us, with an unconscious person to boot. We _won’t_ make it.”

“But we have to try. We can’t stay here, and we can’t leave her,” Eonwe protested.

“I never said we would leave her. What I _am_ saying is we need a plan if we intend to survive at least halfway to the nearest settlement,” Karliah stood and reached into Eonwe’s backpack; pulling out a rolled-up map, she spread it out on the floor of the cell and began tracing routes with a fingertip, speaking softly under her breath.

“Most of the military forts around here are occupied by bandits.”

“What military fort _isn’t_ occupied by bandits,” Eonwe snorted. “I doubt the military would help us, once they knew what we are.”

“And what are we?” Karliah challenged, looking up. “A couple of wanderers and an injured woman. It would be better than risking the hike to Dawnstar.”

Eonwe sat back on her heels, rubbing her hands, her fingerless woolen gloves scratched together. “I know. What you’re saying is true but… do you _want_ to risk going to a fort full of soldiers and not expect them to ask who we are? Do you have a story prepared in case they become curious?”

“Forts are out of the question,” she huffed irritably. “There’s nothing but caves and barrows all around us. But if we take the eastern path and make an abrupt south…” Karliah paused, her fingertip hovering on the symbol indicating a public tavern. “Well, we’ll we within range of Nightgate Inn.”

Eonwe closed her eyes, turning her head away. Nightgate Inn. Even if it meant warm fires, fairly clean beds, and hot food, she’d rather not return there…

“If we can make it past Fort Fellhammer without any problems, we could approach the Vigil--”

“It’s no use. The vampires attacked them during their uprising,” Eonwe interrupted. “The place burned to the ground.”

“That leaves Stonehills to the west, or we simply try for Dawnstar in the north. We would make it for certain if we were alone. And we can’t stay here for much longer.”

Vex moaned softly, her eyes moving rapidly beneath her dark lids sunken so deeply into the gaunt lines of her face; Eonwe bent, lifting the pale-haired thief beneath her armpits.

“Stonehills is closest and will attract us less attention,” she said. “We can head for Dawnstar once she’s capable of travelling.” Karliah nodded in agreement, satisfied with the plan despite its clear disadvantages, and bent to gather Vex’s legs.

It was a slow and arduous journey up through the tower, and the bright light of dawn was fully unwelcome, not to mention the blinding snow and dangerous terrain. The route to Stonehills was through the scraggly wilderness of the far north, the trek divided between a tundra of winter grass and fields of snow broken only by the cloven prints of elk and the stalking paws of wolves and white-furred sabre cats.

Sweat was dripping down Eonwe’s back and stomach beneath the layered leather, and she would have removed the burdening concealment restricting her movement if it meant hurrying their progress; unfortunately, the winds were deadly cold, even at the height of summer, and she knew she would freeze in a matter of minutes. The deadly clutch over her bare fingers, cheeks, and nose warned her; despite her Nord blood, the savage northern reaches of Skyrim preyed on all, regardless of origin.

At last, the thatch-roofed houses of Stonehills came into view over the rise and the spice of wood smoke reached the ailing travelers, Eonwe released a sigh of relief and glanced back at Karliah with a reassuring smile. It was going to be alright, for once in their lives.

∞

Tucking the blankets up beneath Vex’s chin and blowing out the stump of candle in the bronze holder, Eonwe closed the door half-shut and joined Karliah where the elf was sitting before the hearth, dark hair loose and sprawling across her shoulders to dry in the heat of the flames. Eonwe sat beside her, back to the fire, and rested her forearms on her open knees, feeling the tension leave her shoulders.

“How is she?” the elf asked quietly, as to not disturb the locals. Stonehills was little more than a small mining village, the sparse properties sheltering the families settled there in less than half a dozen homes and one small inn run by an Argonian and a Redguard immigrated from their homelands after leaving work as fishers in Dawnstar. The innkeepers had asked little of their stay, offering a room when Karliah produced a sum of coin and the wish for discretion.

The settlement had endured the worst of the return of the dragons, its stone buildings tucked amongst the snowy trees at the border of the marshes of little concern to the serpentine menaces. The vampires had also ignored the mines; only traveling caravans and the occasional wanderer headed to or from Dawnstar stopped by anymore. Eonwe untied her hair and leaned into the warmth of the fire, closing her eyes briefly as she inhaled the smell of burning pine.

“Asleep,” she answered. “She started to fuss but dozed off before her eyes even opened.” She gratefully accepted the offered cup of cider and sipped it; the spicy liquid warmed her from the inside out, and she wrapped her fingers around the carved horn. She absent-mindedly wiped a bloodstain on her finger against her trousers. “We need a healer, Karliah. Her wounds… she doesn’t look good.”

“I can only imagine what Mjoll had her endure,” Karliah said. “And Delvin is still missing. He could be dead already.”

“Don’t say that,” Eonwe reached out and took the elf’s hand, forcing a reassuring smile to soften the clear worry she was feeling. “We don’t know that for sure. We must hold onto the hope he’s alive and waiting for us to come get him.”

But Karliah wasn’t convinced. “If we hadn’t found Vex when we did, she would’ve died. Delvin won’t have escaped Mjoll’s mercy. I’m afraid by the time we reach him, it’ll be too late.”

Eonwe sat back and rubbed her eyes, exhaling heavily. Karliah was right. They couldn’t afford to waste a minute, but what could they do with an injured and unconscious Vex accompanying them? She needed to recover, not be exposing herself to greater dangers and causing even more damage to her ailing body. And they couldn’t leave her to fend for herself, leaving only one option.

“I’ll leave under cover of night,” Eonwe said softly, feeling the weight of her decision settle onto her shoulders. “I’ll go to Bannermist Tower and see if he’s there. If not… then we’ll have to keep looking.”

Karliah nodded slowly, distant look saying she was spinning a plan. “You need to inform Brynjolf.”

Eonwe hesitated. “But will he believe me? If I show up alone and you aren’t there with me--”

“He will _have_ to listen to you,” she demanded under her breath, aware of the few patrons within earshot. “He wanted to push the responsibility of Guild Master onto your shoulders, so use it against him. Make him listen to you. Gallus and Mercer named you their successor; don’t be afraid to go the lengths he isn’t willing.”

“I hope it’s as easy as you make it sound. I’ll head out now,” she reached for her backpack but Karliah’s hand on her arm stopped her. It wasn’t until Eonwe saw the elf’s eyes weren’t on her but on the patrons coming in the door behind her she froze, releasing the strap and leaving her hands free for combat. She risked a casual glance over her shoulder, and saw three robed Nords removing their cloaks at the door, carrying nothing save what they wore. Their robes were plain, made of sturdy fabric and dyed with neutral colours, but as one drew back their hood, Eonwe recognized the horn-shaped amulet caught on the collar of one of the mages. Vigilants of Stendarr.

One of them saw her facing their way and brightened into a smile of recognition, approaching the two thieves. “I remember seeing you with the Dawnguard,” the Vigilant said. “Are you here on business, too?”

“There are vampires here at Stonehills?” Eonwe asked cautiously, motioning casually to Karliah to remain silent. The elf settled back in her chair but there was scrutiny and caution in her purple stare.

“Oh, no. Rumours of a werebear have been circulating,” she plopped down in the free chair beside them and sent a brief nod of greeting Karliah’s way. “We thought we’d come check it out. I’m Irina, by the way,” she offered her hand, tugging off the fur-lined glove. “Don’t know if you remember me, but Isran spoke highly of you. Said you uncovered a lot of information from those bloodsuckers.”

Eonwe returned the friendly smile but avoided introducing herself, knowing her name would be known more than her face. “I hope the werebear doesn’t give you too much trouble. Have you found many vampires recently?”

“Loads of them. They’re like flies,” Irina bobbed her head enthusiastically. “But they’re dropping just as quick. The vampires don’t have any leadership, ever since the Dawnguard went in and handled Harkon. You were there at the fight, weren’t you? Did you see how many were there?” She shuddered.

“Didn’t miss it for the world,” Eonwe grinned. “Irina, might I ask a small favour of you?”

“Sure, anything for a fellow vampire hunter. What do you need?”

“I have a friend who’s been injured. That’s why I’m here,” she shrugged one shoulder. “I’m no good with healing magic, and neither is my friend here. Could you examine her and make sure she’ll recover?”

Irina lit up like a star. “Of course.”

Twenty minutes later, the bright smile had transformed into a concerned frown as the Vigilant stooped over Vex, her light fingers probing and pulling back eyelids and lips. At last, Irina held her hands over Vex’s forehead and stomach, and a glow of soothing light radiated from her palms. Eonwe and Karliah watched in fascination as the worst of the wounds crusted over with scabs, and the bruises lost their angry black colour, softening to faded violets and greens. The smallest of scratches closed to pale pink scars, and Irina pulled her hands away, drawing the blanket back up over the Imperial.

“She will need rest and plenty of fluids,” Irina informed them afterwards, closing the door gently. “I’ve only increased her rate of healing, but the injury to her mind and spirit still linger. Don’t allow her to stand until she can eat without purging.”

“Her wounds,” Eonwe began, impressed by the Vigilant’s performance. “They just… closed. I’ve never seen that before.”

“The Vigilants of Stendarr are excellent healers. Our arts are renowned, and we’ve travelled along the roads of Skyrim, carrying our healing capabilities to the weak and ailing.” Irina glowed with pride. “I cannot do any more for your friend, but time is the best medicine. How did she come across such brutal injuries?”

“We were set upon by bandits,” Karliah jumped in smoothly. “She took the worst of the blows, letting us get to safety and handle them from afar. It was luck we escaped with only minor scratches.”

“Aren’t bandits the most awful people?” Irina grimaced. “Speaking of such, it is time we continued on. I’m happy I was able to help you with your friend.”

“We are very grateful,” Eonwe said. “Good luck with the werebear.”

Laughing, Irina retuned to the other Vigilants and, with a final wave, fastened on her cloak and stepped back out into the chilly northlands.

“Did you know her well?” Karliah inquired.

“No,” Eonwe answered, her smile dropping as the act ended. “I don’t know her any more than the innkeepers. I recognize her from the battle, though.”

Karliah smirked. “You’ve come a long way since we first met."

“It’s easy to be someone I’m not,” Eonwe said. “I’ve spent enough years trying.”

∞

With nightfall, the miners gathered in the inn for their supper, chatting over the events of the day. Many voices rose in concern over Bryling’s lack of correspondence; the thane was the proprietor of Stonehills and had built a third of her fortune on the iron produced from the mines. Eonwe was approached by one of the miners out of suspect she was a travelling sort, with the request to take a letter directly to Bryling if she were destined for Solitude. Seeing that she was, she agreed, hoping she could spare the time to send the message along with a courier in the city and get onto the business at hand.

Saying farewell to Karliah and checking in on an unresponsive Vex one final time, Eonwe shrugged into her cloak and gathered up her bow and quiver; fortified by a small sandwich of meat and cheese, she headed back out and into the whirling snowstorm plaguing The Pale.

It was a long and demanding journey, following the main roads to buy her time as opposed to taking the fishing boat across the sea again. She stopped only a handful of times, sleeping alongside hunters and swords-for-hire at crossroad camps and roadside taverns, or occasionally an old barn on the border of Whiterun Hold.

Being the height of summertime as it was, the plains were uncharacteristically hot and sparse of vegetation, save the long grass waving to and fro, a sea of golden interspersed with rough wildflowers and tundra cotton. Eonwe cut across the plains directly, avoiding the city, and carried on until she met with a horse-drawn carriage destined for Morthal. Though slower, it provided her the opportunity to sleep on the weathered floorboards, her cloak draped over her head to hide her identity, the rocking of the cart reminding her of the ride to Helgen so long ago, when it had all begun.

It was as she looked out at the scenic vista of the mountains and the distant blue-green stretch of the Pine Forest that Eonwe began to change her route. Falkreath Hold was only a stone’s throw away, and it was all too tempting to reach Bannermist Tower sooner rather than later, despite the obvious dangers of going alone.

She could handle herself, though; the Thu’um rivalled any swordsman or mage, and she was positive the mercenaries at Four Shields Tavern had been slain by the Voice – _her_ Voice. She didn’t remember it, not precisely, but she was half-certain. How else had Tonilia’s ring been in her possession?

The Pine Forest wrapped Eonwe in a heavy cloak of pine and spruce, a permanent fog drifting between the rough-barked trees. Sharp sap and pine needles perfumed the air, and she followed the twisting roads until at last she came upon her destination. Bannermist Tower was little more than a narrow spire of weather-beaten stone bearing a single torn banner flapping from the erected flagpole, shrouded by a blanket of heavy white mist. Eonwe cautiously approached, feeling the name of the place suitably apt.

The tower seemed entirely deserted; no smell of campfire smoke or the noise of inhabitants was present, but she remained on her guard until she’d searched every corner. There was no sign of Mjoll’s mercenaries or Delvin, much to her disappointment. Baffled once again by the conditions comparable to Snowpoint Beacon, she sat on the edge of the wall overlooking the forest below and chewed her lower lip in contemplation. She couldn’t return to Solitude empty handed; Brynjolf, already unstable as he was, would lose his mind entirely to know his old friend was untraceable.

But a darker thought broached her thoughts. Did Mjoll already know where they were? It was a hugely disconcerting idea, one she pushed from her mind almost as soon as she began to consider it, refusing to let herself imagine the possibility the thieves’ refuge was already discovered. Though hidden as well as they were, Eonwe didn’t know how safe the catacombs location was: While the older members of the Guild could be trusted to take care in their movements within the city, what could be said about the new recruits? Ilandriel seemed the cautious sort, perhaps a little too cautious, but she didn’t know about the rest.

Eonwe couldn’t be one to judge, though. She hadn’t been there when the cistern was ambushed, or spent the last six months struggling to uphold a crumbling organization. She was no closer to the Guild she once called home than the recruits, and the new ones were always less careful and more… hot-blooded, willing to go the lengths to prove themselves.

Perhaps the letter Karliah had found was merely a ruse, or very old. It had been luck – if it could be called that anymore – that they’d found Vex at one of the locations. Mjoll clearly had a headquarters _somewhere_ , but the question was finding it – and quickly. Time was precious, and every second mattered in securing the Guild’s safety.

Almost beyond hope in finding a sign, a flutter of white caught Eonwe’s eye and she reached for it, plucking the piece of parchment free from its tucked place between two stone bricks. She unfolded it and read, a thrill racing up her spine:

 

 

_Brynjolf_

_I have Mallory._

_Come to Riften._

_Alone._

_M_


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *throws 6k words from hovel*

Hjallmarch drifted by in a blur of squelchy wet and murky green waters, the twisted, leafless trees becoming denser growth, the coniferous foliage a clear indication she was nearing Haafingar. Her aching muscles seemed to vanish entirely at the sight of the natural stone arch over the channel, the piercing winds of the sea howling into the port, and she nearly wept with relief; the journey back was done, though she knew it was of little use to celebrate; the letter was in her pocket, Mjoll’s words searing her thigh, disappointment and shocking despair blackening her mood the closer the old stone walls came.

It was imperative she bring the letter to Brynjolf immediately, but Eonwe recalled the miner’s request, and set off on a walk through the city, pushing her tired legs to the property of Thane Bryling. She stepped up beneath the eaves of the grand manor neighboring the Blue Palace, caught in the shadow of the castle walls, and rapped on the door twice. She knocked again when no one answered; would a woman of such high status at least have a servant at their command? She herself had been left a steward, a servant, and a housecarl to see to her protection and daily requirements.

Thinking to see if Bryling were at the Blue Palace handling the affairs of Jarl Elisif’s untimely death, she passed the archway leading into the garden and caught a glimpse of the side door, left ajar and unwatched. An ominous feeling gripped Eonwe and she argued with herself for a moment, knowing to trespass into the thane’s home wouldn’t be appreciated, but what if something were truly wrong? Before she could change her mind, she was already pushing open the door and stepping into the manor.

Eonwe hesitated to go further and made to leave when she heard a muffled clink somewhere upstairs. She distinctly recalled Elisif’s corpse lying in her room, the unjust assassination signaled by the crash of a broken urn, and raced up the stairs with mounting worry. She thought to call out but remained silent, following the narrow halls of the manor until she saw a fluted glass shattered on the floor, the moonstone-inlaid stem a finger of glinting crustal in the infinitesimal shards. The door ahead was open, the light from the windows illuminating the space at the end of the dark hallway. Eonwe moved toward it, hair rising at the back of her neck as she realized people were inside.

Two people, to be precise, caught in the act of lovemaking. Bryling was pressed up against the side of the armoire, hair in disarray and tumbling from its neat twist down her exposed shoulder, mouth open as she moaned. Her garment was askew, one breast free and currently claimed by a mouth fringed with a beard the colour of fire, the skirts gathered up around her waist as her hips joined in an ecstatic frenzy with her lover. Eonwe felt a lurch of shame and stepped back, face aflame, but wasn’t quick enough. Bryling had lowered her head to gather her lover’s chin – none other than Falk Firebeard, the steward – and raise his lips to her own when her uncommonly large eyes grew wide and she shrieked, pushing him away as she tried to cover her breast with the fold of her bodice and shoved down her skirts with the other.

“Who are you?” Bryling cried, messily swiping at her hair, though it did little good. “What are you doing in my house? Get out! Get out this instant!”

Eonwe flushed even darker. “I-I didn’t mean to intrude. I have a letter for you!” she exclaimed frantically, holding up the parchment in panic. “The door was open and I heard something… Listen, I didn’t know if something was wrong--”

“Where is this letter?” Falk demanded, having straightened his own clothing to some semblance of decency and striding across the room, dark with anger. Eonwe thrust the letter into his expectant hand and he unfolded it, frowning heavily as he read its contents. At once it altered to confused surprise. “A message from Stonehills. Bryling, they claim you haven’t spoken to them since Rain’s Hand!”

Bryling blinked at the sudden change in topic, her attentions to her undone dress forgotten as she joined Falk’s side, peering over his shoulder at the black ink. “A cave-in?” she said. “I did not know of any such thing! I haven’t seen a letter from them since First Seed.”

She looked up at Eonwe, cheeks tinged pink. “Thank you for bringing me this, though I really must ask you leave and… and to forget what you saw here,” she stammered nervously. “I thought we were alone, and if word should--”

“It’s no matter,” Eonwe interrupted, shaking her head. “It’s your home and what goes on in your home is no concern of mine.”

Bryling relaxed quite suddenly face clearing of any anxiety. “Ah, thank you. I appreciate your… discretion. And thank you for bringing me the letter. I found it odd to not hear from them for as long as I did.”

Eonwe remembered something one of the miners said. “They mentioned they tried to contact you several times, but their letters never seemed to reach you.”

Falk narrowed his eyes slightly, looking between the messenger and his lover. “I’ll see you at court, darling,” he said, pressing a chaste kiss to the side of her head and taking leave of the room, brushing past Eonwe with a brief nod of farewell. Bryling tugged at the bodice of her dress and looked down at the letter in her hand, then folded it along the crease with her nails.

Glancing briefly at Eonwe, she produced a small bronze key set with a tiny ruby from beneath a small, lidded, glazed clay container hidden at the top of the armoire, and unlocked a chest to hide the letter within. As Bryling cupped the clay container in her hands; Eonwe supposed she wouldn’t return it to the same place it was hidden, with its whereabouts and important secrets now exposed to a stranger of questionable identity. But why reveal it at all, Eonwe couldn’t help but wonder as the thane set it aside on the desk.

“May I trouble you with a small… concern?” Bryling asked tentatively, turning back to her with a swish of skirts, her eyes seeking.

“Depends on how concerning it is,” she answered with a teasing smile, but Bryling was not keen on amusement for the time being. She was awfully pale, in fact, and looked ready to faint.

“Erikur. He’s wanted Stonehills from the time I began profiting on the iron mines there,” she said flatly. “I have reason to believe he, among many others, could be behind the letters not reaching me. He could have been confiscating them, and would have continued to if you’d not brought me this today.”

“Did you want me to do something about it?” Eonwe suggested lightly.

“There’s nothing you _can_ do without proof. Erikur is a sly cat, and he’ll go through every trouble to cover his sources,” her hands twisted together, her ring flashing as the gems caught the light. “I’ve confronted him in the past. I know he yearns for power, and I dare say he’d stop at nothing to achieve what he wants. He cares about nothing other than himself.”

“I am a close friend of his sister, Gisli,” Bryling added, then laughed. “She had told me time and time again to avoid stirring up trouble, but do I listen? I care about the miners at Stonehills, and for him to withhold their letters and keep me in the dark when they’ve been forced to endure a cave-in.” She paused suddenly, hand closing into a fist. “Did anyone die, and I couldn’t provide reconciliation for their grieving families? They must think me a horrible woman.”

“Is there anything I can do?” Eonwe offered once more. Bryling seemed to mull it over a moment, her fingers tapping on the flat surface of the desk, nails drumming idly. The thoughtfulness in her gaze cleared and she knelt, lifting open the lid of a small chest and withdrawing a cloth pouch. It clinked with the promise of coin. She brought this to Eonwe, placing it in her hands with a timid smile.

“Stonehills will remember your diligence,” Bryling said. “May Mara light your way.”

The thane went to her bed and sat, removing the ribbon from her hair as she began to braid it again, and Eonwe took it as her cue to leave.

∞

The Temple of the Divines was nearly empty save for one devout worshipper kneeling before the empty placeholder for the Shrine of Talos; dangling from their raised hand was an amulet of the forbidden Divine, quickly hidden in the folds of their cloak at the sound of Eonwe’s footsteps but quickly resumed with their prayers.

It was a simple journey down into the catacombs beneath the temple; there was only one path to follow. The air was musty and the silence rang loudly. Siobhan stood by the pull release and, recognizing Eonwe from before, opened the gate wordlessly and allowed her to enter, grunting when she offered a hello.

Brynjolf was at a table with the record books spread out in front of him, copying numbers from one into the business ledger. He hardly glanced up at Eonwe’s approach and she felt a twinge of annoyance; she had a better greeting from the guard. She dropped Mjoll’s letter onto the table and remained standing, hands clenched firmly at her sides as he took his time finishing the ledger. It seemed ages before he picked up the letter and she was positively fuming when he finally stiffened, looking up in alarm. “Where did you find this?”

“Bannermist Tower,” she snapped. “If you’re done wasting time, I suggest we leave now.”

Brynjolf soured with disapproval. “Lass, mind--”

“Don’t you dare tell me what to do. I’m not your lass anymore,” she said viciously. “You’ve made it abundantly clear that’s how you feel.”

Green eyes narrowed to slits. “ _Lass_ \--”

“No, I’ve had enough.” She reached down for the letter, meaning to snatch it back up, when she saw him flinch. It was so small a movement, so subtle, but she didn’t miss it. Eonwe stilled, hand frozen in the air for a heartbeat trifle more than a second, and dropped her arm as her heart crashed into her stomach with a resounding thump. She felt as though she were being strangled.

“You’re afraid of me.”

“I won’t deny it,” Brynjolf answered without hesitation. “You’re unlike anything in this world I’ve ever seen, lass.” Regret flickered in his green eyes when he saw her face, and he looked away, unable to hold her gaze.

She then noticed the bandages wrapped haphazardly around his right hand. The linen strips were stained with splotches of blood. “What happened to your hand?”

“Oh, it’s nothing. Just a wee scrape, is all,” he said, playing nonchalance, but Eonwe was already unwrapping the bandages even as he voiced protest. He tensed at the light touch of her darting fingers. The linen peeled away, the fabric sticking from the blood, and he cringed. Uncovering it at last, she was treated to the sight of several shallow gashes in his palm.

“By the Nine, what did you do?” she proclaimed, bending closer and tilting it into the light of the flickering candle.

“Just a broken bottle,” he muttered. “It’s fine.”

“A _broken bottle?_ What on Nirn were you--”

“I said it’s _fine_ , lass.” He raised his voice a tad, tugging his hand out of her grasp.

“Why are you so defensive? Did you do this on purpose?”

“What gives you that idea?” he snapped.

“Based on the fact you _wanted_ to have your head chopped off, that’s how it looks from where I’m standing!” Eonwe said. “Brynjolf, you say _I’m_ insane. Well, what about you? Should I be concerned you’ll wake up one morning and decide to--”

Brynjolf caught her wrist, tightening his grip firmly, pulling so she was forced to sit in the chair across from him. She went silent at the look in his eye – somewhere between infuriation and exasperation. “Lass, I’m not going to do anything. You don’t need to worry.”

The boiling anger in her flinty eyes vanished at once, and she seemed to deflate, her shoulders growing limp as she sank down into the chair, letting go of him. He reached out involuntarily, seeking the warm familiarity of her hand, and she didn’t protest or pull away at the contact.

“Are you sure?” her voice was very small, spoken hardly louder than a whisper, full of disbelief and worry. He nodded, thumb gently rubbing the pulse point at her wrist soothingly.

“Aye, I’m sure.”

Eonwe stared hard at one of the deeper marks marring the skin within his curled palm, brows knitting in the middle in her concern. “They’ll heal but there’ll be scars…”

The smile widened into a true one, one she recognized and had missed all those long months. “These scars compare nothing to yours, lass,” he said calmly.

“Yes, they do,” she said softly. “If I’m the reason for them, then they’re far worse.”

“And who’s to say I’m not the reason for the ones in your skin? I sent you to Alduin. I _let_ you go to him,” he said. “ _I’m_ the reason you ended up… dead.”

“No, you can’t blame yourself for something that isn’t your fault in the slightest,” she argued.

“Well, then.” He slightly, leaning forward and tucking back a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She stiffened at the unexpected fondness, uncertain how to react, so she remained as still as possible. “If I’m not allowed to feel responsible,” the corner of his mouth quirked up into a lopsided smile, “then mine are my concern, not yours.”

∞

It was late afternoon by the time Eonwe and Brynjolf set out for Riften, carrying very little aside from some hastily “acquired” provisions and a light arsenal to defend themselves with. A deep plum stroke was rapidly descending upon the highest point of the sky, peach and gold as the sun sank into the west in a fiery ball. Onboard her grey mare and halfway across the hold and into the rapidly drawing night, they hadn’t made much conversation aside from a few hesitant suggestions on directions; the silence was loud enough to voice their discomfort around each other, and Eonwe focused on pacing the mare along the roads and taking shortcuts to evade any local militia.

Though not one for politics, Eonwe had heard people in the streets of Solitude heatedly discussing the rebellion’s efforts to march into Markarth, though smugly adding the Forsworn natives were slowing their efforts. At the peace conference, when the jarls had gathered in the halls of High Hrothgar, many of the cities had not been offered for another to briefly sate the increasingly hostile demands of the Stormcloak Rebellion or the Imperial Legion. Intent on gaining peace to _at least_ reach an agreement, Eonwe had agreed to the Empire gaining Dawnstar’s port as reconciliation for the massacre at Karthwasten along with Winterhold – much use that would be – and the rebels were given Falkreath. Both had looked down on her in annoyance but, seeing it was the best they could get out of the tight-fisted Dragonborn, at last relented. Eonwe hadn’t gone there to talk politics; she was there to find a way to stop Alduin and save the damned world the war was determined to destroy anyway.

And now the fighting was resumed, so quickly after the promise of laying down arms; the thirst for bloodshed couldn’t be quenched in a man, it appeared.

Eonwe began to grow restless as they neared Dragon Bridge. The road was open and there seemed to be no sign of investigative activity. They passed through uneventfully, save the sight of the scorched black earth near the tavern; she looked away quickly, urging her mare onwards, crossing the bridge to the tundra beyond.

It was a beautiful day. The sky was a perfect shade of blue, unbroken save a single cloud; Eonwe was trying to decide if it resembled a moth more than a bird when the mare’s gait grew choppy, squealing in protest when she dug her heels in. The horse bent her head in and turned around, ears pinned to either side of her head, the whites of one eye visible in her distress. The horse was often well-mannered and was not one to shy often, and the change in behavior was baffling; she’d charged a dragon once, for Divine’s sake!

Eonwe lifted her eyes to the tundra, sweeping over the waving fronds of yellow-red grass.

With a bloodcurdling caterwaul, the spotted tawny pelt of the sabre cat launched from the long grass. The grey trumpeted in fear and danced aside, deadly hooves flailing. Brynjolf’s horse screamed, pawing the air as it reared, but the cat was upon it, claws biting into its chest and pulling it down as the jagged teeth sank into the exposed throat. The horse plunged, fighting in its last breaths to tear away, but the cat refused to release its prey. A spray of scarlet gushed from the lean red neck as the fangs struck home. A bone-deep shudder travelled through the sorrel, a low whistling keen of fear marking its outcry against its inevitable fate, and crashed in a delicate tangle of legs to the ground, pinning Brynjolf beneath.

A blur shot through the air and stuck the sabre cat in the side, much to its obvious dislike. Recoiling as it swung to face the source of its new attacker, Brynjolf very clearly saw the light wooden shaft and dark red feathers of the arrow protruding from the cat’s shoulder. He looked up at where Eonwe was astride the grey, bow half-lowered and still quivering lightly from the shot. The cat growled and stalked forward with a painful slowness, eyes locked on the grey mare and her rider.

The sabre cat suddenly halted, a light shiver racing along its spine visible even from where Brynjolf was pinned beneath the sorrel’s flank, and he watched in bewilderment as the beast promptly circled around and wandered off. Aggressive signs gone, aside from a twitch of one ear as a fly buzzed too near, the sabre cat vanished into the long grass.

Eonwe had dismounted and was at his side, ignoring the dazed look in his eyes as he peered up at her, half-squinting in the sunlight. “I’ve never seen a sabre cat do that,” he mumbled.

“Do what? Leave after it’s made up its mind to make you its next meal?” she shrugged one shoulder and crouched beside him, surveying the damage, a slight grimace directed at the sorrel’s corpse. “I told it to go.”

Brynjolf suppressed the urge to laugh and nearly did, until he saw the strange look in her eyes. She seemed apprehensive to offer any details, or to so much as look at him directly. His head whirled with surprise. “Are you pulling my leg, lass?”

“No, but your horse here is,” she said distractedly, placing her hands on the reddish bulk and giving a testing push. The animal hardly moved half an inch when she put her weight behind a second push, and Brynjolf leaned forward to help. The corpse slid a little but it refused to go any further when it stopped, and Eonwe sat up, sweeping back a few loose strands of hair.

“You told it to leave,” Brynjolf repeated. Eonwe blinked and looked down at him.

“Are you alright with that?” she asked. She didn’t mean to sound so harsh with her query but she couldn’t help but feel a strong urge to ensure he was at the least _accepting_ of what she was capable of.

“I will be once I’m standing.” Breaking away from her penetrative gaze, he gestured to the sorrel. “Either we tie a length of rope to your horse’s saddle and drag this great lug off me, or you come up with a better idea before my other leg goes numb.”

Eonwe already seemed to have an idea in place and she moved so she crouched behind Brynjolf; looping her arms through his, he tensed slightly as she pressed against his back, securing her hold. “Cover your ears,” she murmured and, raising an eyebrow, lifted his hands to obey.

It was not so much the sound but the sudden blast of force and rapid movement that startled him enough to shout in alarm, rocking backwards as the sorrel’s corpse was violently shoved forward. He cracked the back of his head off something hard and his vision darkened.

Rolling over, Brynjolf found Eonwe under him, her hands pressed over her forehead from the collision. He became intensely aware of her legs sprawled open beneath his hips. Her eyes averted nervously as she looked off to the side, her body language screaming how she wanted to be _anywhere_ but here.

The grey mare whickered somewhere over their heads, bobbing its head and causing the reins to flick from side by side. Eonwe pushed at Brynjolf’s chest, wriggling out from under him and brushing herself off swiftly. He didn’t miss the faint tinge of colour staining her cheeks as she turned her back, untying the provisions bags from the sorrel’s saddle and tying them to her own. Slipping her foot into the stirrup and mounting in one fluid motion, it occurred to her only then they were one horse short.

And it was a long ride to Riften.

Brynjolf saw a war of feelings and thoughts cross her face as she leaned forward in the saddle, offering her hand as those thoughts quieted and were replaced by a smooth emotionless mask. “We’ll stop in Rorikstead and carry on to The Rift tomorrow,” she suggested. “You’d best get on.”

“This won’t cause a problem, aye?”

“Yeah, the mare can handle it. Don’t worry about--”

Brynjolf couldn’t help but feel a twinge of humour as he clarified, “Can _you_ handle it, lass?”

The suggestiveness of his question had the effect he’d hoped. The colour returned much stronger this time, fumbling with the reins. Brynjolf bit back his grin as he took her hand and swung up onto the mare, settling close behind her. She made the effort to not shift away self-consciously and clicked her tongue, steering the mare back to the road and setting them off, leaving Haafingar for the open plains of Whiterun.

∞

It was pure exhaustion from the rigors of the past day that left Brynjolf’s head bobbing senselessly on his neck; after adding up the sabre cat attack, being pinned down by a several hundred-pound horse, and a long night of riding well into early morning, Eonwe wasn’t surprised when she heard a faint snore over her shoulder. She _was_ surprised when the warm bulk of his body slouched against her back, his head bent and resting on the curve of her shoulder, long strands of red hair fluttering into her eyes in the wind across the plains.

Eonwe’s own eyes began to cross and she rested her head back against Brynjolf’s chest, letting the mare continue plodding on at her own rate. She was asleep instantly, and woke briefly to the feel of warm thighs closing around hers as Brynjolf steered the mare along, his right hand holding the reins while the injured one lay cradled at the edge of her thigh. Without thinking, she reached down involuntarily and wrapped her fingers around it in a subtly protective manner, tucking it closer to her. He said nothing, and neither did she, and she closed her eyes again.

It had been a very long time since she last felt as content as she did there now – and here of all things.

Rorikstead was nestled at the base of the hills, beneath the monumental dragon mound atop the highest of the hills. Several wood-and-stone farmhouses dotted the massive expanse of land, and vast fields laden with the green clumps of growing vegetables stretched on for quite a distance. It was a prosperous community of farmers, earning as much coin as they could make from the hard work they dedicated themselves to.

The sun was at its highest and the Frostfruit Inn was full of farmers and travelling merchants gathered at the long bench tables, discussing business or the yield of their crops, bowls of food and flagons of mead on every table surface. Approaching the counter to restock their supplies and rent a room, there was an otherworldly finality as the door swung closed.

The bed looked marvelously tempting, but Eonwe made no move to take it, and neither did Brynjolf. They stared at it for a ridiculous amount of time before she cursed herself mentally, setting her bow and quiver on the side table and dropping her backpack to the floor. “It would probably be a good idea if one of us keeps watch,” she proposed.

“Aye, you get some rest,” he answered immediately, a note of relief in his voice. “I’ll be… out there.” He waved dumbly to the main taproom, and she nodded, sitting on the edge of the bed to pull off her boots. She looked up as he left, taking in the sight of is tense shoulders, and couldn’t bring herself to relax until he was gone, and began plucking at the laces of her arm gauntlets.

A quick wash to remove the layers of road dust from her face and hands, she made a face at the trickles of dirty water tracking over her skin to soak into her tunic. She could smell dirt and sweat, combined with the ripeness of horse hide and leather. She proceeded to take off all her clothes piece by piece, and scrubbed mindlessly, the desire to be clean her foremost thought. As the sponge swept over her skin, she recalled the feel of his thighs pressed around hers in the saddle, hardly an inch to spare between them, as close as they had been the day she left the Thieves Guild for Ivarstead, when they shared a final desperate moment in the graveyard. She hadn’t forgotten the wild primal feelings those stolen moments had stirred up; in all the months that followed, she was driven awake from the deepest of sleeps, her skin damp with sweat and her flesh tingling at the ghost of forgotten touch.

Pink from washing, she darkened a few shades redder, embarrassed at the prickling arousal deep in her belly. _Easy now, Jorgiis. This is territory you are so not ready for_.

And yet her mind betrayed her, filling her head with thoughts and images sinful enough to make a priest flush. She forced the thoughts away firmly, scrubbing a toe determinedly. There were more important matters to focus on, and her romantic pursuits – or lack of them – was not one of them for the time being. They had all the time in the world, after all.

What were a few months more?

∞

The last of the patrons ambled off in favor of the warm beds and wives awaiting them at home, sending kindly farewells to the bar mistress as she scrubbed the last few flagons left on the counter’s edge. The early hours of a nightly morning saw a new moon hanging in the star-dappled sky, and the cooking hearths burned low, the large aspen logs near charcoal but the heat lasting yet another hour or two.

And still, from where was curled in the warmth of the hearth, Eonwe couldn’t sleep.

The chair was much too knobby to possibly provide any comfort and though the floor looked slightly better, she wasn’t inclined to lie on the road dust and gods-know-what-else. She was unbearably cold and desperate for a few hours of undisturbed sleep, and she continuously thought of the fur-laden nest just two doors down on the right from the bench tables, cleared off until they were to be set for the early risers and first morning customers.

Another ten minutes contemplating whether she had the nerve enough to approach the inn room found her shivering beneath her cloak and considering spitting fresh flames into the red embers of the hearth, and as another draft blew over her exposed toes tucked up beneath her drawn-up knees, she stood; her progress was slow, gathering the trailing ends of the cloak around herself and taking the long way around the hearth to the rented room’s door. She pressed her hand flat to it, taking a calming breath, picturing herself taking up the least amount of space on the bed as far as possible from its inhabitant and making as little noise as possible. Yes, it would do, she told herself firmly as she began to push it open. The bed was big enough for two, after all, and he wouldn’t mind if he noticed her there. They’d slept near each other before; what difference was it to share a bed for the sake of a night well rested?

With courage in hand, Eonwe straightened her shoulders and opened the door.

She startled, half-jumping out of her skin at the sight of Brynjolf on the other side, shirtless and just as startled as she. He was pale-skinned to begin with, but she’d never seen him quite _this_ _shade_ of white.

“Sorry,” she muttered quickly at the same time he exclaimed, “For bloody sakes, lass! Scare me half to death. Is something wrong?”

“I thought you were asleep.” She didn’t mean to sound accusatory but ended up snapping regardless.

“I was. Too many ales earlier,” he added the last bit to lighten the tension hanging between them, a quick smile prepared to accompany it. She saw right through it though. It was a practiced smile, one she’d seen him use with strangers or people he didn’t necessarily like. “Did you need me for anything?”

“No, I just… it’s cold out here and I wanted - or, I mean… I was wondering--”

Brynjolf cut off her nervous stammering with a low exhale and turned sideways, extending one arm in suggestion she pass him. “Bed’s still warm. Go on.” He slid past her, one hand briefly resting on her shoulder to propel her forward and into the room past him.

“B-but where will you sleep?” Eonwe asked. He looked puzzled.

“Do you want me to change my mind and renounce my offer?” he began to say but she was already halfway across the room and clambering beneath the cozy furs and thick wool. She sank into the stuffed mattress and buried her cheek into the pillow, sighing as she dug her toes into the warmth; the bed smelled like Brynjolf.

The door had swung shut on its hinges and now creaked open, the impression of broad shoulders filling the open space briefly before shutting again. She didn’t hear him cross the room – another mark of a good thief, she thought privately – and felt the mattress sag as he took up the other side. She felt the blankets move behind her, then all was perfectly silent.

Eonwe could hear her heartbeats pounding in her head.

It would be impossible to sleep like this, she knew, regretting her choice immediately. She couldn’t bear to stay but lacked the courage to leave; she could hardly dare to move, let alone breathe. The other side of the bed was just as quiet, rippling with tension, and she shut her eyes tight. _Go to sleep,_ she thought fiercely. _Stop overthinking things and sleep, damnit!_ She wasn’t sure exactly whom she meant it for.

Brynjolf cleared his throat and she felt the bed shift, and her mind went perfectly blank at the light touch on her shoulder. She nearly didn’t turn but did out of curiosity, rolling onto her back to see the liquid shine of his eyes in the dark, the faint light of a coming dawn ever so faint through the windowpane, but enough for her to distinguish him from the otherwise pitch-black room. She made a questioning sound.

“Can I ask you something, lass?”

“Yes.” It sounded like a question.

“Would you have come back sooner? If you knew what’d happened?” There was a tentativeness in his inquiry, faint but detectable for an ear trained to listen for double-edged meanings and hidden knowledge. He stared up at the hidden rafters of the ceiling, where the shadows danced in harmonious freedom until morning light.

“If I knew, I would have been there to stop her,” she spoke truthfully. “But I couldn’t. And I’m sorry. I know that’s not enough to make up for all this, but if things had been different, I would’ve been there in a heartbeat. It was as much a home to me as it was to you,” she added carefully. “They were my friends, too.”

“Aye, I know,” he sighed. “I… I blamed you at first. I thought if you’d been there, we might have made it. The Guild might have survived if you were there to protect it.”

“Why? Because I’m Dragonborn or because I’m a good thief?” Though she intended it as a joke, she couldn’t help the note of cynicism. “I did leave my second-in-command in charge while I was detained,” she added teasingly.

“He didn’t do a very respectable job, now, did he?” There was a smile in his voice, but an obvious lack of humour. “Leading was never the right shoe for this old thief.”

“What makes me any different?” Eonwe said. “I never asked to be Dragonborn, but I didn’t have a choice. You’re a thief, a _better_ one than me. You’ve just been doing it longer.”

“Aye, so I don’t have much of an excuse, do I?” he chuckled. “Karliah picked up where I left off. She knows the ins and outs better than the two of us.”

“I wouldn’t doubt it. Did Gallus ever intend for her to be Guild Master after him?” she asked.

“Only Gallus knew about that. Mercer was his second for a long time, right from when they were both young lads. It isn’t for me to say; I don’t know.”

“They were close, weren’t they?”

“He and Mercer? Oh, aye,” he glanced at her. “You still blame yourself for his death.”

“He’s dead because of me.”

“No, lass. He’s dead because of Nocturnal. It wasn’t your fault.”

“Just like Mjoll destroying the Thieves Guild isn’t my fault?” she couldn’t stop herself from sneering, mainly because in her mind, it was true. “I know it’s my fault. Everyone who’s suffered or who I couldn’t save is due to my not being there. I didn’t slay Alduin only for more people to die afterwards. Otherwise,” she faltered. “What’s the point? What’s the point of being Dragonborn if it means nothing?”

She was quiet for a time, struggling to hold in the tears. It was both freeing and daunting to expose the bare bones of her regrets and fears, and she started to roll over onto her side when his touch on her wrist stopped her.

“Lass, you can’t save everyone.”

As much as she wanted to object, there was truth in those words; Karliah had spoken the same before, and Eonwe’s inner voice had reflected such sayings again and again with every burned village the dragons reached first, or every city attack that left a husband, brother, wife, or sister in a river of blood during the vampires’ tyranny. It was a fact of life – people were born and people died – and sometimes it was just the cruel will of the world.

Fate.

All except for Eonwe; she had assumed that because of her immortality – if she really was – then her ability to live a thousand lives meant saving a thousand stolen before their time. It wasn’t so clear now, with voices beyond her own clarifying an issue she’d contemplated for months since her return. Perhaps her eternity was just… an eternity for her and her alone. It dawned on her to think of how Brynjolf fit into all this; if she would live forever, then what of him, a mortal man with one life already half-lived?

Her agitation ceased immediately as exhaustion crested her senses, her head heavy with confused thoughts she couldn’t bear to sift through another moment more, but still.... “Are you just saying that cause we’re in bed together, and you’re afraid I’ll breathe fire if you make me angry?” she muttered sarcastically, though her heart wasn’t in the fight anymore.

Brynjolf chuckled and moved his hand away, turning onto his side away from her. “Well, now that you mention it…” he said, and she smiled, faint but earnest.

The room had lightened considerably and the first pale streaks could be seen fading the dark of night into dawn. Eonwe curled into the blankets, thinking over everything they’d said. It was the most they’d spoken to one another without arguing, and it left her feeling lighter than she thought she would have – despite some of it being very… grounding. She shut her eyes and heard a soft snore behind her, and it wasn’t long before she drifted off as well.

The sun was a ball of golden flame pouring through the window, but both Eonwe and Brynjolf were fast asleep, ignorant of the world around them as morning lit the skies.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very sorry about the wait for this chapter. I've been busy with other things and this fell to the bottom of the pile, not to mention I haven't had much inspiration. The holiday season is upon us here and oh boy, it is as busy as ever in stores! I won't make any promises, but I'll do my best to update again soon. Cheers!

He watched her for a time as she slept, eyes moving beneath their darkly-lashed lids as she dreamed, fingers groping and twitching on the blanket. She breathed softly, some inhales punctuated by a faint snore, the occasional mumble as she stirred before growing boneless and distant once again. The edges of her hair were framed by the light streaming through the window; the faint sounds of the tavern rousing with morning patrons the only sounds beyond her soft breaths. He gingerly touched the ring on her hand, gliding his fingertip along the knuckle, seeing the tiny blue vein and the small creases of flexible skin over the joints. The nail was trimmed close to the bed, the edges uneven. The hand twitched in response and he smiled involuntarily.

All he longed to say to her inert form rested on the tip of his tongue, desperate to spring forth from his mouth. This was reality; she was alive, slack with sleep and dreaming of distant worlds, and it terrified him. She was here, whole and complete, battle-scarred and as beautiful as he remembered her. The small details he’d forgotten stood out now, springing forth from her profile, and he struggled to ingrain every single one to memory.

These precious moments they had, he couldn’t help but wonder as the sun rose higher and turned her cheek to gold. How much time did they have?

Could he bear to let her back in only to lose her once again?

∞

It was an extremely late start to the day when Eonwe was jostled out of bed – and almost quite literally – by Brynjolf. She attempted to cover her eyes with the woolen blanket to keep out the blinding brilliance of the sun but it was yanked from her feeble grasp and dragged to the very bottom of the bed. She sat up, stretching for it, but a hand grabbed her arm and nearly tore it from its socket as she was pulled to her feet.

In frustration, she outright hollered her opinion of being woken so rudely, colourful language and all. The immense red-haired thief merely rolled his eyes skyward, dropped a flagon of hot cider into her hands, and wheeled out of the room. She adjusted her hold on it as her fingers were scorched, frowning heavily at his back.

Grumbling between sips of the cider, Eonwe recalled it was not the first time she’d been woken in such a manner by the thief in question, and she glared at him pointedly as she sat down to a small but bounty breakfast of venison sausages and eggs at the counter. Her flaring annoyance was doused at once, however, as it occurred to her he’d spent whatever little coin the Guild was fortunate enough to have preserved to buy her breakfast – and a good, hot one at that. She picked up her spoon and began ladling the steaming eggs into her mouth before he could rebuttal her for her manners (or lack of thereof) and expect a clear answer – which he didn’t, to her relief – and she settled for nodding and small gestures as he suggested the directions that might carry them fastest through Eastmarch and into The Rift.

Chewing on a bit of venison sausage, she studied their map. From where they were in Rorikstead, it would take them a day to cross the plains and another to make it to Windhelm. From there, they could stop at the Braidwood Inn at Kynesgrove, and carry on with the intended route. At a good pace with minimal stops, it would take them a week to reach the distant city.

As Eonwe set the flagon and bowl aside, she found herself gazing at the mountain path marked by a faint grey line. It meant treacherous ice and blizzards, sheer walls dropping off into icy abysses, not to mention passing Helgen; no more than a series of destroyed ruins inhabiting bandits and the like, she knew it would be far more dangerous to take that route. If all went according to plan, however, it might shorten the time it took to Riften.

But it wasn’t the terrors of nature that left her hesitant to suggest the mountain route. Dragons were known to lurk in the isolated refuges of stone and ice, away from civilization with no _thuri_ to guide them into battle. A hiding dragon might defend itself, but if provoked or naturally aggressive – as most of their kind were – Eonwe and Brynjolf would be looking at a full-on fight against a capable winged creature bent on surviving against the Dragonborn, their greatest nemesis and the biggest threat to their fractured existence.

But it would be faster, and Mjoll might not be willing to garner them points for lack of punctuality.

Eonwe decided, as she fastened the laces of her gear securely and listened to the bar patrons humming a war song by the fire with their ales, she would wait until they were on the road to mention Helgen.

∞

The grey mare plodded along at a brisk trot, her saddlebags bouncing as she trekked across the plains; Eonwe left her to choose her own route and speed in the rock-laden undergrowth. Horses were steady animals, spending most of their time wandering and grazing, and the grey was a sure-footed animal. Being one among the herd sold at the stables in Riften, but she had carried her to and from danger enough times to be considered reliable. Leaning forward to pat the horse’s neck, she resumed focusing on the deer trail ahead.

Having set out as late as they had, nightfall came quickly and long before they’d reached Whiterun’s walls on the distant hill in the midst of the plains. A dilapidated ruin, half-buried by overgrowth and foliage, hid at the base of a hill sporting a single wind battered pine grown through the middle of a large cracked boulder. The ruin was empty, save a skeever she disposed of with a readied arrow, and Eonwe made the excuse of finding, “Water and some such.”

The thicket of trees was dense here, the ground thick with a layer of pine needles and rotted foliage sending up little clouds of leaf dust. Her footsteps were muffled, and she was almost able to sneak up on a fox before its bushy white-tipped tail was seen speeding off into the undergrowth. As the bushes grew denser, she navigated down a rocky outcrop and welcomed a few minutes of peace and quiet for herself.

The uppermost branches swayed in the breeze, yellow leaves detaching from their delicate stems and fluttering through the air like small butterflies. An elk was in the forest yonder, rubbing its antlers against an itchy spot on its side. It was peaceful, disconnected from the rest of the world.

A little wandering brought her to a narrow creek surrounded by a grove of conifers, and she squatted beside it, rinsing her hands in the sparkling water. She washed her face and neck, shivering at the cold droplets, and caught a glimpse of her reflection. Shifting so she was more secure, she bent over the creek and looked at her face for the first time – and quite properly – in a very long while.

Gone was the rounded cheeks and doe eyes of youth. High cheekbones emphasizing the height of her face, and deep-set green eyes darkly-lashed and squinted very slightly in the corners from being in the sun, were the first things she noticed. The freckles across her nose stood out darker, disappearing over her cheeks but still prominent. Droplets of water were caught in her thick, slender brows; one shone like a diamond on the subtle arch. Her profile was the face of a traveller, a faintly sunburnt nose rounded at the tip but not too bulbous, and her lips were bow-shaped, the bottom lip fuller than the top and bitten from habit. A small scar on her lower lip in a subtly raised ring, partnered with a white line through the outer brow, completed her profile.

Strangely, her ears didn’t stick out and the ends weren’t as pointed as she’d thought they were; the tips weren’t rounded perfectly but they didn’t look elven. She was tanned, the pearly white of her skin vanished, a warm tawny hue left behind with distinct olive tones lingering beneath. But she was thinner, not a gangly thirteen-year-old, but a slender and athletic young woman used to hiking on foot and relying on strength alone to bear a blade and bow in battle. She ran a hand through her hair, lightened to a dusky gold where the sun had bleached it, the ends barely long enough to brush her shoulders; swept back and moistened by the water on her hands, the ends were curling from a day exposed to wind and warmth.

Eonwe recognized the face in the creek and yet she was unfamiliar at the same time. She touched her lips, her cheeks, the corners of her eyes, feeling her face with curious fingers. She could feel softness and bone combined, and at the feel of a higher concentration of hardness, immediately heard her mother’s voice demanding she eat more. She smiled to herself and watched her face transform, lines deepening around her mouth with a brilliant smile and eyes briefly shining with content. She held frozen for a moment, staring at that young woman – the girl with eyes as green as moss, touched with hints of brown and flecks of gold – and let the face register in her memory. Is this who she was? Is this the face she presented to people? She let the smile fall. Or was it this one, somber and nearly glaring? She liked the smile better, in all honesty.

“Eonwe?” Brynjolf called, not far off.

Embarrassed by her gazing at her reflection in such deep concentration, she was nearly sent her crashing headlong into the water; she thrust herself upright, dusting off her trouser legs, swallowing her chagrin. She was glad he hadn’t seen her.

“Here!” she called in answer, hurrying away from the creek and back to camp.

The unblinking sunburnt-orange eyes of an owl watched her go.

∞

At the White River’s crossroads, instead of crossing the bridge, Eonwe tugged on the right rein and sent her mare up the steep incline in the direction of Riverwood. Brynjolf confusedly asked where they were going and she bluntly stated her intent to pass Helgen. It took a bit of convincing and as much false reassuring before he finally stopped straining around her for the reins and let her take the lead with a quiet expletive.

A small victory, one she was completely and wholly certain she’d regret before the day was done.

Indeed, as Helgen rose from the crest of the hill and the blackened towers with their burnt banners came into view, Eonwe began to question why in the name of sanity she’d thought it would be a good idea to come here. She hadn’t been to Helgen since that fateful day, and she’d never thought she would return. But alas, here she was, and the memories were all too quick to rise to the forefront of her thoughts…

When Eonwe had crossed the border and arrived in Skyrim, the first people she’d encountered had been a patrol of legionnaire soldiers fighting a band of rebels. She’d known nothing about the political war between the Empire and the Stormcloak Rebellion – as it was called. What she _did_ know, when she’d walked right into the middle of half a dozen archer shouting fire, was that a burly blonde warrior was hauling her out of the line of said fire. Brawny and taller than her by a foot and a half, the rebel officer had glanced her over, said his name was Ralof, and flung himself into the ensuing battle with his axe and a war cry.

Eonwe’s introduction to the Civil War was very sudden but also very brief, as by the time two on the rebellion’s side had fallen and three of the legionnaires were bleeding amongst the dense snowy pines, an entire force was joining in and bringing the rebel Stormcloaks to their knees, and the fight was over as a general strode forward and removed his helm, revealing a sparse greying head and a clean-shaven jawline.

_“Ulfric, how far did you think you could go before we’d find you?” the general smirked, waving for a legate to join his side. Though not as old as the general, the years hadn’t been kind to her, nor had been the war; an ugly scar scored a red ribbon from below one eye to her chin, and deep depressions sunk her tired eyes. Eonwe turned to see they were talking to a man in magnificent steel armor swathed with a dark blue sash. The helmet held by the legionnaire officer at his side was designed to resemble a snarling bear. The man, very lordly and quite bearlike himself, raised his head and grinned fiercely, though it looked more like a scowl to Eonwe, from where she kneeled next to the officer named Ralof._

_“You are a fool, Tullius. The sons and daughters of Skyrim will remember this day,” he vowed. “Do you think it will be easier to tame the wolves once you’ve offered them a taste of blood?”_

_“Gag him,” the general ordered. “And you’d best hood him, too. All of them. We don’t need anymore situations. Rikke, you’re to remain with the wounded until the rest of the reinforcements arrive. I want you back in Solitude to inform Captain Aldis we have him.”_

_“As you say, General Tullius,” Legate Rikke bowed her head, a fist over her heart, and swung around to the men. A wisp of a girl in dark scarlet healer robes melted from the trees and cast back her hood, kneeling beside one of the wounded legionnaires and summoning golden light between her fingers. The last Eonwe saw was a glimpse of Ulfric Stormcloak’s livid expression as the gag was secured and the hood was yanked over her eyes._

_The carriage bumped down the road for several days, and the only times they were afforded freedom from the splintered seats and cramped positions side by side like packed books in a box was once a day to relieve themselves at the roadside, in full view of everyone. When Eonwe skipped her opportunity, preferring a full bladder instead of dropping her drawers in front of a bunch of strangers, she regretted it fiercely when the bitter cold night came and tortured her until morning. Ralof, who’d been sitting next to her bouncing leg, asked in quiet tones to stop the carriage._

_Luckily, it was a female legionnaire who guided her to the first trees closest to the roadside, although she wasn’t any kinder than the men in the group. All of the prisoners argued about wanting out of the cart, too, and the legionnaires decided it would be better to not have carriage reeking of urine for the next few days of travel._

_Two days later, one of the carriages threw a wheel and needed to be repaired on the spot. Preferring to remain together as a group, the legionnaires made a few hasty fires while the archers hunted down a mountain goat and a young buck. Eonwe and Ralof sat in the back of the carriage, stomachs engaging in a competition of growling at the smell of cooking meat. Wolves were drawn by the food and firelight, and a melancholic song was taken up in the trees, some voices low and others piercing, but hauntingly beautiful all the same._

_“Are they going to kill us?” Eonwe asked the rebel officer quietly. He squeezed her knee with his bound hands and told her yes. She was grateful for the hoods hiding their faces, so no one would see the tears running down her cheeks._

_All that she’d endured and suffered, and she was going to be slain by the Empire her father stood for among rebels? The unfairness of the situation spurred her to ask why the Civil War was happening, and Ralof indulged her search for knowledge that might provide some form of closure. At the end of his explanation, Eonwe understood. The Civil War wasn’t only a waste, but a planned one._

_“Aren’t you worried about the Thalmor trying to invade?” she demanded in hushed tones. “Isn’t it obvious that this war is a big distraction for what they’re really up to? The treaty was by their terms; don’t you think they could just march into Cyrodiil and lay waste to everyone while you’re fighting this stupid war?”_

_Ralof didn’t answer, but his silence wasn’t that of disappointment but of concentration. Somehow, Eonwe felt as thought she had struck the nail squarely on the head. It wouldn’t do much in getting out of a dawning execution, though. She was a criminal, no matter how one looked at it._

_On the fifth day of travel, just a few hours away from the township of Helgen, they picked up a horse thief named Lokir. Claiming he was from Rorikstead and was otherwise innocent, he fretted all the way to the town gates, stirring up everyone’s ire and the already-churning nerves of others. Their hoods had been removed at their last relief stop, and they got to watch the gates open and the walls embrace them as the horses clomped in. Eonwe would have retched if anything other than water was in her stomach._

_Immediately waiting within was a small patrol of Thalmor, all astride on pale-coloured mounts, saddles bearing their emblem. Eonwe scrunched down quickly, avoiding the blazing stare of the female elf watching the carriages pass while she engaged in an argument with General Tullius. Eonwe remained low until the gilded armor disappeared. Ralof was watching her strangely._

_“Friends of yours?” he asked._

_“By Talos, no,” she answered, and his face lit up with surprise._

_The carriages pulled into a large courtyard between two towers, one squatter than the other. Banners sporting a red dragon on a black field flapped in the light wind. The residents of the township were gathering, many gaping in astonishment as they recognized Ulfric Stormcloak._

_A stern captain and a young officer with a checklist of names went through every Stormcloak one by one until it was Eonwe and Lokir trembling side by side. The young officer read his name aloud from the list and was met with instantaneous disbelief. Vying he wasn’t a rebel, the thief from Rorikstead opted to make a run for it and met his end with an arrow in the back,_

_Eonwe quivered._

_“And you are…?” the officer said._

_“I’m…” she stopped. She didn’t know what to say. Frightened tears were running down her cheeks and she felt deathly cold. A sound like thunder was slamming in her head and she swallowed, trying to speak again. “I am…”_

_There was no warning that could have prepared her for what happened in the next heartbeat. A wave of force, followed by a symphony of startled cries and screams, drowned out her voice. Shadow and fire swept through the courtyard and Eonwe was flying backwards, collapsing into a shocked heap in the back of the carriage. The horses were neighing and rearing, pawing the air, jostling the carriages in panic. Eonwe lifted her head, sight spinning, and her eyes fixed on the winged black shape soaring into the churning red sky, spewing a stream of fire just like a…_

_“Dragon,” she breathed._

“You never told me about Helgen,” Brynjolf roused her from memory, nearly startling her, and she shrugged in casual indifference. Despite his arm around her waist and her back pressed to his chest, her spine felt cold, as did her hands.

“You never asked.”

“I heard about it,” he went on, clearly wanting to ask her about it but dodging the pony – as per usual. It was becoming a familiar song-and-dance routine with him.

“It’s different – hearing about it and being there,” she said.

“Then tell me. How did it happen?” he insisted.

The gall! “Do you want me to revisit one of my worst memories?” she hissed, making their mount sidestep.

“Was it so bad to be one of your worst?” he asked dubiously.

“It wasn’t a great day, if that’s what you’re wondering,” her voice rang with cold sarcasm, swinging out of the saddle and pulling the grey’s reins over her head to lead her through the destroyed town. The sight of devastated buildings, blackened by the terrible dragon’s fire, was as appalling as the day she’d seen them burn. She could almost feel the souls of the dead swaying in perpetual horror, grieving for the lives so violently stripped from them, their last memory of the horrifying black demon bearing down upon them.

“There was a skirmish on the border, when I first arrived. I was confused and walked right into the middle of it,” she began faintly, the words spilling from her like a confession. “The next thing I knew, they were tying my hands together, and the rebels were cursing the legionnaires as they were loaded into carts. I could only fear the worst. ‘They’ve found me. They’ve found me and they’re going to kill me.’ That’s what kept racing through my thoughts until we reached the gates.” She felt considerably exposed, telling this part of the tale, and she cast a brief look at the sky, devoid of any dragons at present but still… Helgen gave her reason to watch the skies.

“Bruma, you mean?” Brynjolf glanced at her. He knew that much of her past, she remembered.

“Yes. We were unloaded from the carts and lined up. Anyone who tried to run was shot with arrows. It was all very orderly, as if they’d done it a hundred times before. I suppose they had. I doubt a dragon attack was part of their regular beheading ceremony,” she added, her tone vile.

Brynjolf said nothing, instead letting her continue at her own volition. And she didn’t know why, but she did. Maybe it was too hard to keep it bottled up inside anymore; maybe it was because he’d been through the same thing.

“I’ve stood there, waiting in line to hear your name called and see the shadow of the axe coming down,” she said hoarsely. “I know how it feels to have your heart in your throat, knowing once it’s done you’ll know nothing else. I know how it is to fear death. Don’t think I don’t,” she added defensively.

“I never said you didn’t,” Brynjolf nudged her with his elbow, a smile on his lips. “It must have been something, seeing that big black bugger for the first time.”

Eonwe envisioned an impression of black scales and red eyes, and a gaping maw full of jagged teeth and roasting flames. “He was everything the legends say he was.”

“And you defeated him? Truly?” Eonwe blinked. Was that a touch of awe she detected? She decided to be cautious with her answer and deflect any ideas of glorified battle, choosing to state it as plainly as announcing support was ready or the like.

“What remains of the World-Eater is far away from here,” she said.

They reached the other set of gates and swung back into the saddle. She glanced back at Helgen for a moment, remembering the screaming and the fire. What a dark day it would be, to see the World-Eater return once more.

Partway up the road, Brynjolf plucked an unusual question from thin air. “Is there a name for dragon slayers among the dragons?” he queried. _Huh?_ She almost twisted around in the saddle to fix him with a peculiar look, but figured it was harmless to humour him.

“ _Dovahkriid_. Or _Qahnaarin_ ,” she answered. “It means ‘Vanquisher’.”

“Eonwe the Vanquisher, eh?” he teased. “Sounds befitting for a grand saviour.” She poked him in the ribs with her elbow, and he stifled a chuckle.

“Don’t start. It’s not winning you any favours,” Eonwe opted for a serious tone, but couldn’t stop the smile from crossing her face. She felt ridiculous, but at least he didn’t see it.

 

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my dear readers!  
> I decided it would be alright to put out another (albeit short) chapter. Though brief, we get to have a look into our antagonist's mindset and some of her history, so I hope it proves interesting. I'm currently working on the twentieth chapter (I write ahead, as some of you know) and I keep looking back to make sure everything is consistent - and if there needs to be necessary changes to make certain things fit... then it's much easier. Last time around when I wrote The Voice Within, I think I'd only written the first five or six chapters before posting as soon as I was done editing. It was sometimes a little messy and not as thought out, and many sequences I wrote on a whim. I'm taking caution with Song of Ancients to (try) avoiding the problem, and that is why there's only one or two chapters a month. You've all been incredibly patient and I appreciate it immensely. I can't really say that enough, especially right now. I'm having a few complications (we have a leaking pipe upstairs and workmen coming round almost daily) and it's busy at work with Christmas less than a month away. Is everyone's Xmas shopping done yet?? Cheers and see you in the comments/the next chapter, and I'm beyond overjoyed to hear you're enjoying the story thus far! :)  
> (Very sorry about any little errors. I sometimes miss/swap a letter at the start of some words/sentences when I'm writing fast. I check regularly before and after posting, but they can be very evasive!)

A chronological series of excerpts from the journal of Mjoll the Lioness, dated from before the initial attack on the Thieves Guild to the present. The second is quite ominous, hastily written and smudged with a bloodied thumbprint…

_“I have discovered the whereabouts of their headquarters. There is a secret entrance in the graveyard, inside the mausoleum, activated by pushing the button on the coffin. It is so immoral that those rats live beneath the resting place of the dead, but if all goes as planned tonight, they will be able to sleep undisturbed._

_I find it curious Sibbi brought me this information. I do not trust the hag or her grandson in the least, but I sent two scouts ahead to investigate under the disguise of ordinary travelers, and both report a small tavern in the cistern called The Ragged Flagon. From what I got out of Molgrom last month, it is the same place. He seemed genuinely happy with betraying his former associates in telling me about the secret entrance. I had Zora take care of him. I will not have any loose ends, but I doubt he will be missed. He made my skin crawl. Are the rest of the thieves so bloodthirsty? It makes me shiver to think of those scum living under our streets._

_I should give Grimsever a sharpening. She looks dull.”_

_∞_

_“I lost two men in the attack but we have been victorious. I have taken the second-in-command hostage, and four of my fastest riders are scouting the area as I pause in the throat-cutting to write this. The pale-haired wildcat took off into the trees lying west of the city and south of the lake._

_I found a number of letters and record books in the desk. The Guild has contacts all across the province, from Markarth to Windhelm! One book mentioned a name I recognized: Eonwe. Could this be who I think it is?_

_I must bring the news of tonight to Jarl Laila at once, and to request leave of my duties while I hunt down the rest of the scattered thieves. I should say my farewells to Aerin as well.”_

_∞_

_“I have not had much time to record my efforts in ridding Skyrim of the Thieves Guild, but I can spare a few moments for now. We have moved into an abandoned tower in The Pale. It used to be called Snowpoint Beacon, and served as a watchtower during the Great War. I found a few letters collecting dust, describing in great detail the procedures used to extract information from the prisoners of war kept here. I have no love for the Thalmor and they were judged accordingly to their war crimes._

_I have been thinking quite a bit about the days before I returned to my homeland, and the joy I felt when I finally crossed the border – though there was not much of a welcome in this cold and harsh land. I will miss the jungles and deserts, but I have brought many tokens home, including a memento from Ilham: A gold ring with an inscription. **Sand elske**. I will treasure it always, and remember the kindness he offered me when I reached my lowest._

_Ilham accepted me when I thought no one would. It was not my fault the contract was a deception. Ysraad had a lot of enemies and he knew – we all knew – he would eventually be caught in a trap. But it was Grimsever who cut down that family of innocents, and it was not the cowardly Ysraad who stepped forward to accept the blame for my eagerness to draw blood. We were loyal to him, and we were blinded by our loyalty. Ilham told me many times I am not the woman I was before, but these hands have taken lives more than they have saved them. He knows the darkness in my heart. I promised him I would try to move on from this. I thought coming home to Skyrim would be the best way to account for my mistakes. It has yet to happen._

_When I found Aerin after all these years and he was willing to offer me not only a home but friendship as well, I cannot put into words how happy it made me. I taught him how to use the blade all those years ago, when he was just a boy and I was wild and hot-blooded. He is a good man. He always was. He was better than the rest of us. Level-headed, clear-minded, not grasping for the need to be stronger or braver or more reckless. Aerin left because he had something worth giving himself to. Back then, I did not._

_I do not understand how a bunch of ragtag villains can run around a city and cause people so much pain and struggling. Riften is not a wealthy city. Maven Black-Briar has taken over everything and leaves everyone else with nothing. Jarl Laila will not listen to my insistence they are associated with the bitch. I must find a way to expose her. I will someday. I have a reason to keep fighting._

_I am sorry, Ilham. It is still not time to lay my blade down. I cannot pretend to be something I am not, not for you or for anyone. Do not think ill of me. It is not your way, but it is mine.”_

_∞_

_“Torglof went back to Snowpoint and brought news of the wildcat’s disappearance. The thieves must have been watching, waiting until we left. We did not have a choice in leaving; the Silver Hand are outrageously aggressive and demanded we hand the tower over. They moved into the abandoned fort only a few months ago and are constantly on the move, bringing huge deposits of silver. I wonder if they have found a den of werewolves? It was not worth the fight in keeping the tower. We have returned to Bannermist in the meantime, and I have Mallory locked in the cage. He is getting worse. I let the torturer go too far and should have laid down more firm instructions on breaking him, not bludgeoning him to the point he cannot stay conscious. I need to acquire a healer.”_

_∞_

_“I have found no traces of the Thieves Guild. The prisoner has so far been unaccommodating and resists our methods to extract information about their whereabouts. I have left a message for Brynjolf in the hopes he will find it and meet me in Riften. Mallory is dying but he must live if I hope to use him for bargaining. As I feared, I will have to bring Aerin into this. His healing skills brought me back from the brink once. I owe my life to him and I would rather not involve him in this butchery, but I have no choice and very little time.”_


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas, dearest readers! I've added two chapters to enjoy with a mug of hot chocolate... or maybe something stronger if that's your fancy. Have a wonderful holiday and a lovely new year! All the best and lots of love.

“There’s still the matter of the Thieves Guild,” Maven sipped from her goblet. “Have you heard from Mjoll?”

“Not recently, no,” Laila said. “I’ve only received the last letter of hers from when she moved into the old prison tower up north. She mentioned a group called the ‘Silver Hand’ causing her trouble.”

“How did Brina take mercenaries running a secret operation on her land?” Maven inquired, setting aside the goblet. Laila lifted the decanter, filling it to the point her company held a well-manicured nail to.

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” Laila admitted. “My only hope is that she runs down those rats quickly and returns to her position here. I need her council more than ever. If it were I in her place, I’d let the rest of them die out. What trouble can a few thieves do?”

“Oh, you would be surprised,” Maven murmured. “It is because of them my mead business declined so swiftly. Without Goldenglow Estate’s local supply, importing honey from the apiaries in Falkreath cost me a fortune. San’s spiced wine coming out of Haafingar ever since the new distillery opened has been far from beneficial,” she leaned back into the cushioned chair, sighing as she idly waved a hand. “I couldn’t even offer a partnership if I so desired. But back to the matter at hand: You were hinting at a few ruffled feathers earlier. You know I will lend aid wherever possible.”

“Ulfric demands more soldiers and I’ve none to give. The worst of the fighting is out in The Reach. If it isn’t the Imperials cutting down our boys by the hour, there’s the Forsworn to worry about.”

“The natives are no more than a fly in the ointment. Rumours say they care little for the conflict and don’t bother concerning themselves with who they fire their arrows at. They’re doing half of the work for us. Ulfric knows those lands are treacherous and the tribes are hostile.”

“If Ulfric wins the war, the Forsworn will be the first on his doorstep chanting for blood. If he is exiled, Tullius will surely hand him over to the Forsworn,” Laila said. “To say nothing of the Thalmor and the threat they pose. The Dominion watches our every step. They’re simply waiting for us to make the wrong move.”

“Igmund wrote to me a fortnight past. They’ve begun a systematic cleansing, searching each property for signs of Talos worship, even going as far as taking prisoners if one appears too suspicious or resisting to a house check. Thonar Silver-Blood sent word of his efforts to transfer the prisoners to Cidhna Mine as labourers, to save them from worse treatment. 

“By Mara…” Laila exclaimed. All were aware of Cidhna Mine’s strict policies and harsh conditions, which only until recently changed their methods in the regard of prisoners’ wellbeing. For the infamous mine to offer gentler treatment than under the hand of the Thalmor was… sickening to imagine for those who hadn’t been so lucky to receive Thonar’s goodwill.

“Soon there’ll be no one between the Forsworn raids and the Concordat’s laws,” Maven concluded darkly.

“If Skyrim were ever to gain independence, we might take a war against those self-righteous elven bastards,” Laila said vehemently.

Maven looked away from the flames to Laila, her face grim. “Or they to us.”

∞

The court was in full precession when one of the keep’s advisors came to Laila’s side, bending close to her ear and handing a thin slip of parchment into the jarl’s hand. Unfolding the paper, she read a single line, the ink smudged from being written recently: _The garden_.

“Anuriel, keep them entertained,” Laila murmured to the wood elf steward as she took leave, the slip folded into her palm, following her advisor to the barracks. Several of the city guard paused in their polishing of steel weaponry to greet their jarl; they were in various states of dress, from light tunics and breeches to full armor, recently returned from patrolling the streets or local woodlands. Laila smiled and answered their greetings, but she was eager to be moving, and followed her advisor to where they waited at the door to the garden.

In summer, the keep’s garden was a splendid sight, taking advantage of the filtered golden light. Lanterns hung from the brackets nailed into the trees, unlit during the day but creating a pleasant glow in the night. A stone path curved in an infinite loop through the garden’s middle, a small stone-lined pond in the center, a slender monolith rising from the clear leaf-dappled water. A lattice gate off to one side led out to the private stable yard, where a carriage and several horses were kept, housing the keep’s stablemaster and gardeners. In the evenings, Laila could sit on her balcony overlooking the gardens, and felt the same sense of peace as when she visited it.

Mjoll was herself a monolith, the wide shoulders framed by a heavy mane of blonde hair, the loosened waves cascading down her back as she waited for Laila.

“How fares the hunt?” Laila called as her advisor left, and the blonde-maned warrior turned.

The Lioness was a tall woman, always carrying herself with a sense of noble regality, even at rest. She had a faraway look to her eyes, clouded with distraction, but it cleared as she heard Laila’s question. Her smile was broad. “Laila, it’s good to see you.”

“And you. I didn’t expect to see you so soon. Have you accomplished your task?” she inquired.

“Nearly. I am close,” she said. “That is why I have come; to seek your aid.”

Laila laughed. “What can I possibly do to help in catching thieves?”

“You would recall in my last letter I mentioned taking up residence up north in one of the old towers?” Mjoll asked, tilting her head to one side. A spill of golden hair tumbled over her shoulder, the end swinging lightly as it settled against her breast. “I have two thieves held prisoner, one of whom I hope to use as a bargaining tool, but no place to keep them.”

“You have brought them here, then? To Riften?”

“Aye, in the woods under guard. I intend to move my men into Fort Greenwall,” Mjoll said. “With your permission, of course.”

“Fort Greenwall is an important strategic position for Ulfric’s forces,” Laila objected. “It is instrumental in defending the city from attack--”

“And is currently overrun by bandits,” the Lioness interrupted impatiently. “I will clear the fort for you. I only need it for a month’s time, perhaps a fortnight. Send a few of your city guard to aid in their removal if you must.”

Laila didn’t need time to contemplate Mjoll’s offer. The bandits had plagued the route through to Shor’s Stone, preventing the income of trade opportunities with the farther-lying Windhelm. Detrimental to shop owners and businesses in the city, it was without saying Riften was on a steep decline, their economy failing – and not just due to the bandit presence on the outskirts. In only the last week, two market stands had been forced to cease trade, and the general goods was liquidating their stock at outrageous sales. There was even rumour that the Temple of Mara, relying on donations and funding from local charity – none of which had been seen in Riften for what seemed centuries – was soon to close its doors.

What was a city without its temple?

“I will arrange a small entourage to accompany you to the fort,” Laila decided aloud. “You may use the place as you wish for a fortnight.”

“There is also the matter of the warehouse on the docks. I have need of it.”

“A whole fort and you want the dealer’s ramshackle hut?” her brows arched high on her forehead. “Whatever could you need it for?”

“As the fort is instrumental to the war, the warehouse is a necessary part of my plan,” Mjoll said with no small trace of elusiveness. “I am aware of the structural damage it suffered recently. A dragon?”

“Yes. The docks are still in repair after the winged snake flew over,” Laila sighed, her head spinning with numbers as she recalled her discussion with Anuriel regarding the cost to fund repairs and clean up the damage done to the outlying fishery, meadery, and storage buildings. “Was there anything else you needed?”

“No, but I know who to come to if I do,” the Lioness said. “I appreciate your generosity, Laila.”

“Will you return to the court once the thieves are handled?” Laila inquired.

“Of course. This is my home as much as it is yours. I wouldn’t dream of leaving it,” she laughed, blonde mane swinging as she left to the lattice gate. “What would you do without me?”

∞

The sunlight caught the edges of Mjoll’s hair, the golden locks a brilliant amber hue, a warm contrast to the faded grey tones of the city. Autumn leaves were scattered across the cobbles in the street, bits of moss and weeds spouting between the cracks, the tender green snarls crushing under her boots as she stepped up beneath the eaves of the house and knocked lightly on the door. She waved to Bolli as he passed with a neighbourly greeting but she made no intent to strike up a conversation; the door was being answered as it was, and the sun fell across the face of the masculine silhouette in its frame, a pair of glasses perched on the end of the long nose in a scholarly fashion, small spots of ink smearing his fingertips.

“Mjoll!” Aerin exclaimed, unable to contain his surprise. “I was just finishing a letter I intended to send to you. Where have you been?”

“I will gladly tell you, if you let me in,” she said pointedly, the Imperial pulling the door open wider to let her pass. Mjoll shed her cloak, hanging it on a free hook. She glanced around the small living quarters as she took up one of the chairs by the fire, reclining gratefully against the plush cushions with a sigh.

Such mundane comforts. Was she ready to drag Aerin back into the world she thrived in?

“Tea? Or something stronger?” Aerin asked among the telltale clattering. He looked over when she didn’t answer and went to her side immediately at the sight of her hunched forward with her head in her hands. “Mjoll? Are you unwell?”

“I’ve been hunting down the thieves for the last six months,” she confessed without delay. “Living like a bandit, paid in blood. Aerin, I need your help.”

“And you’ll have it. But tell me what is wrong?” he asked firmly, sitting beside her, tea forgotten. Mjoll pushed back her hair from her face and released her breath heavily, the weight of half a year chasing down shadows in the simple gesture.

“He’s dying. He was beaten. I ordered them not to hurt him to the point he’d be useless,” she said, eyes blank as they fixed on the stunned point of Aerin’s face. “I wanted to use Mallory for bargaining. If I brought Brynjolf to Jarl Laila and had him locked away in prison for eternity, I could give up the hunt and come back here. Home.” She clenched her fingers tightly. “But he won’t come without a fight, so I wanted to use Mallory.”

“He’s a deceptive and rotten snake,” Aerin argued. “He wouldn’t make a trade like that. But what did you need me for?” he inquired.

“To heal him. Mallory,” she said. “I need him well enough before Brynjolf arrives. I left a note. If he’s been to Bannermist, he’ll be here any day.”

“And where is Mallory?”

“I have a small camp in the forest. I’m moving into Fort Greenwall tomorrow. Laila’s letting me have the place,” she answered. “I have everything else worked out. Can I ask you for this, Aerin?” she met is gaze hesitantly. “I know after you left Mzinchaleft--”

“I will,” he interrupted. “But I must ask you something.”

Mjoll nodded.

“It’s not enough, is it?” Aerin murmured softly, dark eyes knowing. “You can’t give it up, can you?”

Mjoll was silent for several moments, staring down at her hands. She could see all the grooves in them, the callouses, the hands of a fighter, a woman who wielded a blade as an extension of herself. The familiar bumps and lines; she could trace them in her sleep, remember the moves in her dreams, swing Grimsever in a cleaving sweep with her eyes closed. It was the song she sang. It was all she knew.

“It’s who I am,” she whispered, her eyes molten honey in the fire’s glow. “There’ll be no coming home for me.”


	16. Chapter 16

The mountain pass howled with a wind colder than the darkest winter’s night, the bone-chilling gales screaming through the narrow winding trail with the shrillness of a disturbed wispmother. A blizzard had set in long before they reached the mouth of the trail, and was in full force now; it was difficult to see beyond one’s own raised hand. Eonwe continuously breathed small rushes of flame into her cupped palms, hoping to warm herself without scorching her and Brynjolf, but the deathly cold had sunk into her fingers and was there to stay. Using the Thu’um as she was, even in small portions, she was beginning to feel it wearing on her at a level that could only be described as soul-deep.

Ridded of feeling in her lower extremities, not helped by a long hour of riding with little progress through the deep snow drifts, she was fighting to keep her eyes open when all she wanted to do was close them and sleep, even if just for a little while…

“… shit. Wake up, lass!” Brynjolf was shaking her shoulder roughly, her head jostling on her neck, and she snapped upright, realizing she’d dozed off. She recoiled as the cold blasted under her cloak and left her shaking, balling up as she hunched over the grey mare’s neck with a sound of protest.

_Gods, why is it so damn cold?_

A visceral expletive enough to make a sailor’s ears burn sounded and Brynjolf brought their mount to a stop, swinging down even as Eonwe raised her head in confusion. She flinched as he prodded her thigh sharply, hands extended. “C’mere. At this rate, we’ll freeze to death.”

“But there’s no place to go,” Eonwe said with a sleepy tongue, her words slurring, half-leaning out of the saddle as Brynjolf found her waist and hauled her down into the snow. Her knees buckled but she remained upright, nodding to let him know she was fine.

“I saw a cave a little way back,” he said. “We can stay there until this damnable blizzard passes.”

Eonwe just nodded, focusing on keeping her feet beneath her, and followed the trail of hoofprints as Brynjolf led the mare back up the steep angle of the path. It was even colder now, and she wound her arms around her sides beneath the cloak, breathing shallowly. _Keep moving, Jorgiis_.

The wind laughed at her, pulling her cloak so it billowed out behind her, exposing her to the elements and leaving her eyes watering with tears. Oh Gods, it _burned_. She tucked her head down and struggled on, feeling as though she was slowly becoming a living slab of ice, starting at her very numb and very aching toes and fingers. _Go, just keep going_.

Then it _was_ laughter, and it was reflexes alone that caused her to swing around and draw her sword from its sheathe, arm flashing out to keep her cloak from tangling around her. Her eyes scanned the white and grey landscape quickly, danger thrumming through her veins. She could feel it, _taste it_. They weren’t alone.

She held her sword at her side, the cold briefly forgotten, still as the surface of a lake on a clear day. Eonwe let her eyes do the work, scanning the vaulting stones and jagged ridges, searching and searching yet. Everything was hidden behind the white wall of snow, but the ridges stood out plainly, dark shadows just ahead. She narrowed her vision, focusing harder, feeling her head begin to ache from concentrating. _Where are you?_

As soon as she’d noticed, the feeling was gone, and the battle-ready throb subsided. The surge of adrenaline passed and the cold returned as wickedly as ever, biting with a force as equal as Alduin’s murderous maw. Sheathing her sword, she trudged up the slope to the dark mouth of the cave, but the feeling of watching eyes yet lingered and left her wary to turn her back to whatever watched from afar.

But it was too cold to concern herself with ghosts; she needed to move before frostbite set in.

The cave was smaller than it looked from the outside; big enough to shelter a small camp, the horse occupied the farthest corner, tail pressed tightly to its hindquarters, steam flaring from its dark nostrils as it snorted at her approach. Eonwe patted its warm hide as she passed, finding Brynjolf having begun the labouring task of starting a fire. Traces of previous travelers occupied the cave; a rolled hide and a small bundle of sticks had been stowed away as a thoughtful contribution to the next chilled wanderer passing through the mountains, and footprints of different sizes marked the flattened, frozen ground. There wasn’t a lot, though, just enough to build one small campfire. It would be enough for a few hours, but not to last the whole night; she internally groaned at the idea of trekking out in the dark to search for wood, and tried to remember if she saw a spindly old tree on the trail some ways back. If they could get a fire going, they might be able to warm themselves enough to hurry there and tear off enough wood to build a second fire later.

Brynjolf swore, tossing one of the sticks aside as his menial efforts proved useless in creating a spark, resorting to rubbing his hands briskly; she saw a grimace of pain pulling the corner of his mouth, and she glimpsed the stain of blood on his palms. She went to him and crouched beside him, grabbing his wrist tightly to see the scabbed cuts had opened again. He was shaking.

“Look at what you’ve done,” she muttered, rooting around in her traveling satchel for the spare length of worn linen she kept. They’d stopped briefly at the Stormcloak camp tucked up in the trees just before reaching the pass, trading for a few supplies, and Eonwe had needed a larger pack. The satchel reminded her of the one she used to carry, and didn’t get in the way of her bow; it hung off the opposite hip her quiver rested on and carried plenty, even if it cost quite a bit from her decreasing fortune from services to the Dawnguard.

“It’s fine, lass,” Brynjolf evaded, but she tightened her hold without a word, keeping him still.

She tore a few strips and set them aside, searching for her salve container. It wasn’t necessary for her to carry it, as she had discovered months ago the small cuts and bruises she acquired seemed to disappear rapidly in only a few mere hours – if at the most, a day or two – but she still kept it with her. The salve was tinted a bluish-grey from the natural dye in blue mountain flowers combined with blisterwort mushrooms and swamp fungal pods. It had a faint musty odour, a little like wet moss or rain water. She dabbed the bleeding cuts gently with an edge of a strip, sparingly smeared a little salve over them, and began wrapping them in a light field dressing. It was messy and hastily done, but it would have to do; the wounds would have to heal on their own, provided they didn’t inflame.

“I’ll get the fire going,” Eonwe said as she packed the linen roll and salve container in her satchel, pulling it off over her head and setting it aside with her bow and quiver. She left her sword on her belt. “Go keep a lookout. I thought I saw— hey, don’t do that!” she added quickly when he curled his fingers, testing the dressing. “I’m not fixing it if it falls off.”

“I’d hate to see your wrath over a few bits of cloth,” he teased as she rearranged the sticks for the fire into a small pyramid. He got to his feet with a grunt and went to the mouth of the cave, peering out as she bent over the sticks and breathed, “ _Yol_.”

The wood caught quickly, the flames licking along the sticks, and a pleasant warmth washed over her hands as she held them over the bright glow. She sighed in relief, feeling returning to her aching fingers. It hurt at first and she resorted to tucking her hands into her armpits, letting them warm slowly. “I got it!” she called as he returned carrying a few bundles.

“That was quick,” he commented as he unrolled a blanket he’d brought and laid out the sparse bag of provisions and water skins from the saddlebag. He handed one of the skins to her and she uncorked it, drinking thirstily, only to splutter and cover her mouth as she registered the taste of weak wine.

“Is this _wine?_ ” she asked after swallowing the bitter liquid. “Ugh, it’s horrible. Is there any water?”

Apparently, there wasn’t, but Eonwe couldn’t fathom taking the time to melt snow into drinkable water. The wineskins had been traded for at the rebel camp a little way back, and she assumed their stores must have been… a little outdated. She was in the process of debating if the wine was appropriate enough to consume in the conditions when she found herself already at the bottom of the skin, her body crying out for nourishment, regardless of if it were alcoholic or not.

They fell quiet, dividing the hard bread and dried meat. She was fairly sure it was spiced elk, and she chewed in small bites, staring into the campfire’s orange glow. She felt a little better with food in her stomach, and broke one of the halves of bread into smaller pieces, nibbling sparingly. It was as though she drew energy from the bread, each tiny crumb a sustenance restoring the internal damage and fortifying her.

Unless it was the wine.

She forcefully set the wineskin down and ate the last of her share of spiced elk, stomach rumbling gratefully. Weak or not, the wine had left her feeling queer, and she closed her eyes, breathing deeply. The smell of burning wood and cold stone filled her nose. The campfire looked like a tiny candleflame, and her breath smelled of spirits, stirring an old memory. _Remember the night when we get so drunk in the Ragged Flagon, we couldn’t remember if we’d slept together?_

A startled noise made her open her eyes and she found Brynjolf staring openly at her in shock and bewilderment. She realized she’d spoken aloud and, in her attempt to apologize for her brazenness, hiccupped loudly. “Must be the wine,” she tried to make a casual joke out of it, but her cheeks were burning red, betraying her embarrassment.  _Forget it, Jorgiis. Stop making it worse. Just… go to bed._ She blushed harder. _No, not to bed_ with _him._

“I… um, is there only one blanket?” she fretted, toying with the fraying edge beside her, fervently hoping he would say no. _Say no, please say no. There’s another. There’s--_

“Aye,” he said slowly, watching her. His expression was unreadable. She stifled another hiccup and nodded promptly, her head jerking awkwardly. _Now, Jorgiis. No more excuses_.

“Where will you sleep? You’ll freeze,” she stated.

“I suppose we’ll have to share,” he said softly, “if you’re not opposed to it.”

“No, it’s fine!” she shook her head quickly, part of her mind hauling off and slapping her for her idiocy and the other half, while not completely doused in bad alcohol, slogged through another plan to prevent herself from looking like an absolute buffoon. “It’s not as though we haven’t slept together before.” _Oh, that’s exactly the right thing to say. Well done, you. Well bloody done._

Brynjolf, thoroughly amused from the way his mouth kept twitching, corked his wineskin and set it aside, and gathered the blanket as he joined her on her side of the fire. Settling against the smooth rock wall but still close enough to the fire to feel its heat, he noticed her dawdling. “Unless you intend to sit there all night…?”

The blanket wasn’t long enough to accommodate the two of them sitting side by side when wrapped around, leaving the highly intimate and highly intrusive space between his legs the only possible other option. Pleading whatever amused Divines to help her retain a sense of dignity – and keep her jaws firmly shut for the remainder of the night – Eonwe settled against Brynjolf with her back against his chest. It was no different than riding horseback for the last several days, except there was no horse, and they were uncomfortably aware of their proximity to one another. Brynjolf wrapped the blanket around them tightly and she took the ends in her hands, holding them firmly.

Neither of them spoke. It was uncomfortable to breathe deeply, lest a small movement remind them of how close they were to each other.

It was all too much. She wanted to move away, to make her own small corner, but she was afraid to. What would he say? What would he think? She already knew though. He would know exactly what she was thinking, and she wouldn’t have that. She forced herself to remain still, but her body betrayed her, a loose shiver racing up her spine and tingling all through her skin.

“Are you still cold, lass?” he asked quietly.

“A little.”

Brynjolf wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her more firmly against him. “Get some sleep. It’ll be dawning soon.”

Eonwe gingerly laid her head back against his chest, feeling the stubble of his chin catching strands of her hair, and she closed her eyes. She tried to breathe steadily and let her mind drift away, but despite her exhaustion, she couldn’t catch the threads of sleep and emitted a frustrated sound. “It’s too quiet,” she whispered plaintively.

A chuckle rumbled up her spine. “Shall I sing to you?” he inquired sarcastically.

“I didn’t know you could sing,” Eonwe teased, twisting around to glimpse the wide grin on his face.

“Oh, I’m far from your common bard, lass. But even an old thief like myself knows a song or two,” he shifted her so she was lying against him again, and hummed thoughtfully. “Give me a moment to think of one…”

“You don’t have to,” Eonwe interjected quickly the same moment he was clearing his throat and saying, “Ah, I’ve one. If I’m as bad as I think, I guarantee you’ll be asleep in seconds.”

“What song--”

“Hush, lass.”

_“By yon bonnie banks and by yon bonnie braes,_   
_Where the sun shines bright on Loch Honrich,_   
_Where me and my fair lass were ever wont to gae,_   
_On the bonnie, bonnie banks o’ Loch Honrich.”_

Eonwe rolled her eyes but kept quiet, wondering if he was making up as he went along. He had a surprisingly decent voice, the rich baritone humming against her back, and she laid her head back against his shoulder, closing her eyes. She was still very much awake. _He’s not as bad as he thinks_ , she thought privately as his voice supported the frankly emotional weight of the song:

_“O ye’ll tak’ the high road, and I’ll tak’ the low road,_   
_And I’ll be in Skyrim afore ye,_   
_But me and my fair lass will never meet again,_   
_On the bonnie, bonnie banks o’ Loch Honrich._

_‘Twas there that we parted, in yon autumn glen,_   
_On the steep, steep side o’ Loch Honrich,_   
_Where in golden hue, the aspen trees we view,_   
_And the moon coming out in the gloaming._

_O ye’ll tak’ the high road, and I’ll tak’ the low road,_   
_And I’ll be in Skyrim afore ye,_   
_But me and my fair lass will never meet again,_   
_On the bonnie, bonnie banks o’ Loch Honrich._

_The wee birdies sing and the wildflowers spring,_   
_And in sunshine the waters are sleeping._   
_But the broken heart it kens, nae second spring again,_   
_Though the woeful may cease frae their grieving.”_

_Those are the words of a love song_ , was her last conscious thought, as sleep came to steal her away.

∞

Eonwe’s head rolled limp on his shoulder as she slipped under the cloak of oblivion, and Brynjolf glanced down at the curve of her cheek, rosy gold in the glow of the fire. He lifted one hand and gently touched her, tracing a pattern with the lightest of caresses in the freckles across her face. Her lashes twitched, heavy wings laid over her closed eyes, shadowed and grey from tire. She pushed herself so hard, even now.

He looked at the small scars on her face, seeing others far finer than those on lip and brow. A small cut on her cheek, the finest line of raised white skin, a nick from a blade. Other engravings, tiny spots telling stories he’d never seen on her face before, gained in the months they were apart. He wondered which of them had been administered by Alduin before recalling how she’d looked after the red dragon brought her home. A blood-soaked ragdoll, battered and broken, her bones cracked in half. Alessandra had done quite a bit to prepare her for the funeral pyre, washing the caked blood from her hair, presenting what was left of her to be finished off by the cleansing flame.

Eonwe’s chest rose and fell under his hand, and he felt a weight lift from his shoulders, yet another burden drifting away like brown leaves on an autumn wind. She was alive, breathing, unbroken and as beautiful as he’d remembered. More even…

“I’m glad you’re here, lass. If this is all the time we’ve been given, I’m happy,” Stroking his thumb across her cheek and smoothing back an awry lock of her hair, he added, “But to hold you a little longer… aye, I’d steal you from the stars if I could.”

∞

_A lone tree grew on a small island on a clear blue lake, its roots clinging to the sparse clump of dirt it had grown too big for, perching above the waters it had drunk from since its time as a slender green sapling. It was no ordinary tree; its bark bled glittering cords of twisted crystalline sap, dripping down onto the roots in glossy orbs. The leaves were of every colour – russet reds, earthy greens, burnished ochres, rich browns – falling onto the surface of the lake and sending out tiny ripples._

_The leaves drifted away for a bit then sank, drifting down into the water, vanishing in the midnight blue underworld where the dragon lay coiled, its flame-red eyes fixed hungrily on the lonely little tree with all its colours. It was envious of the tree, stretching its branches in the sunlight, feeling the wind caressing its bark. The dragon snarled, grinding its claws against the prison of roots it was ensnared in for all eternity, forced to watch the tree grow taller and more beautiful with each passing age._

_At last, overcome with anger and hatred for the lonely but beautiful tree, the dragon began to gnaw the roots, its blackened heart wanting naught but freedom – and to destroy the tree that had imprisoned it._

∞

Eonwe woke to the grey light of morning filtering through the light snowfall beyond the cave. The air was still and cold outside the scratchy blanket wrapped around her, and she lifted her head, pausing with a wince at the crook in her neck. The fire had long since gone out, no more than a mound of cold embers and white ash. The wineskin lay where Brynjolf had left it.

The grey mare whickered, noticing she was awake, its back turned against the cold under a blanket of its own, secured to the straps around its chest and belly so it wouldn’t blow away in the wind. At the noise of its rustling, Brynjolf stirred beneath her and she looked up at him, his face tilted away from hers, reclining against the stone behind his head.

There was something in people – both men and women – that occurred when they were asleep. Boneless and oblivious to the world, they lie slack, caught in the web of infinity, body content and muscles lax. Their faces were always serene, undisturbed. Eonwe felt a small twinge in her chest as she studied Brynjolf’s profile. The tired lines from traveling and wrinkles around his eyes were softened, and her eyes lingered on the grey strands in his hair and beard. She noticed one was white, betraying the stress of the last few years.

 _With all he’s been through, there’s no reason he shouldn’t feel old_ , she thought as she reached up carefully to run her fingers through the ends of his hair on his collar, a hundred shades of russet, copper, and ruddy chestnut among the silver. They glinted even in the faint dawn light. _But here, he’s so young_.

Looking at the falling snowflakes in the pale light, she found the cold hardly touched her. Eonwe felt nothing but peace and, for the first in months, happier than she thought would be possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmm. Who was out in the snow watching Eonwe? What do these strange dreams mean? WILL THEY OR WON'T THEY? The mystery continues... :)
> 
> Disclaimer/Author's Note: The song is based on “The Bonnie Banks O’ Loch Lomond”, written by a Scottish captive during the Jacobite Uprising in 1745. It tells the tale of two lovers who’ll never see one another again. I made a few adjustments to make it better suited to Skryim, replacing Loch Lomond and Scotland with the appropriate settings, as well as a few minor descriptions.
> 
> Caution: It is highly advised to avoid consuming alcohol when suffering from hypothermia. It makes you colder much faster, and increases chances of succumbing life-threatening symptoms further inevitable.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you Wulfralth and MadeofLime for the song recommendations on the last chapter! :)

_(From the journal of Karliah):_

_There’s far too much on my mind at present to remember the date. I sit by the hearth in Moorside Inn as I write my troubled thoughts into words. It is well past midnight and no one is awake – not that there are any patrons in this rundown old place. Morthal has suffered greatly under the weight of the Civil War. Even as the Thieves Guild is not associated with the fighting or the politics (for the most part) we are still tied to the conflict informally. The Guild is recognized by the Empire. Stemming from a tradition that existed even during the era of the Grey Fox. We are as bound to the war as it is to us, so I must repudiate my previous statement. Shadows, I sometimes sound like Gallus._

_I wonder what he thinks of all this mess we’re going through. How would he handle Mjoll and the Guild in the state its in? I’m sure he’d do a lot better than I’ve done. There’s always more than one way to solve a problem. He’d tell that to those struggling in our way of line. I’ve only approached this one way, the way I’m most familiar with handling situations. Elaborate, deliberate, a process. Take everything into account and utilize it all, even the smallest of details matter and can make the biggest difference in the resulting outcome. Gallus used to say that, too... so did Mother._

_Quick, efficient, distant. I remind myself of her more each day. I don’t know if it is enough to protect the Guild. She was among the best, her skill set stretching are beyond my own, her talents wasted on a cruel day with fate against a hoard of treasure-hunting bandits. But what she taught me has kept me alive this long. There is clearly a reason I am here, watching Gallus’ legacy decay, losing more than we can gain._

_What do I have to do – how far do I have to go – to keep us from falling apart? Or is this Nocturnal’s will? Has our luck run out for good?_

_I hear Vex. I had best make sure she doesn’t pull off her dressings again._

∞

_(From the journal of Mjoll the Lioness):_

_The preparations are made and we lie in wait. Fort Greenwall was no match for my best, and the dwelling is ours for a promised fortnight. It is much larger than I thought and the placement is useful. A shame Laila values its worth to the war more than a protective outlying garrison for the city._

_Aerin came willingly – which I admit is a great surprise. After Mzinchaleft went as it did, I truly expected him to fling my request for help in my face. The man is wonderful, a true and earnest fiend. I hate to drag him into this, but knowing he’s still on my side gives me strength. Mallory has a chance to live, and I owe it to him. Once Brynjolf arrives, I have no idea of the outcome when I propose the trade-off. I must continue to hope for the best._

_I have taken a look at the old warehouse on the docks. The roof is starting to cave in and the walls are old, but it will do as an interrogation site. Once I deal with the thieves, I will have Maven dealt with, even if I have to drag her to the prison cells and toss the key. The witch is the reason Riften is becoming a slum. Surely, Laila must see past her guile? She must!_

_I will do my part. I know Riften has a chance. I will be the one to give it that chance, or give my life trying. I have found my purpose, Ilham. I will see to fulfilling it._


	18. Chapter 18

_4E 203, 1 st of Last Seed_

Dark and dripping, the smell of the lake on the air. Rotting boards under her hands, wrists bound by rope, much too tight on her skin. A wet rag bound around her mouth, choking her as she heaved for breath, regaining her consciousness from the dragging clutches of darkness. It was all but impossible to see, a single candle on a table in the middle of the place – a house? A room? – with a wickedly curved knife on it, the handle just visible from where she was lain in the corner, head pressing hard against wet, mildew-slick stone.

“H---hh!” she struggled to call out past the gag but no one answered. Fighting to sit up, she closed her eyes at the sickening tide of nausea, a booming headache leaving her nearly paralyzed as it rang through the delicate shell of her skull, threatening to implode around her throbbing brain. She could clearly feel the gash in the back of her head, a heavy blow from an unseen weapon, and the feel of half-dried mud on her trouser legs reminded her of the fight outside Fort Greenwall.

The bandits had swarmed from the dilapidated stone walls, their bellows not of territorial rage but of excitement, their swords and axes in hand as they charged as one. _Seven… twelve… sixteen!_ She’d barely had time to count as they kept coming, men and women, the light of war shining in their rabid eyes. She and Brynjolf had stood their ground, fought out of necessity, blades arcing and blood spraying, throats opening as scarlet rain scattered over the churned black ground. The skies had opened, the storm falling in a tribal drumbeat, a bear growling thunder as lighting splayed like white fingers. Auriel’s Bow flashed as arrows flew, striking blindly as she struggled to keep up with the onslaught of bandits through the silver rain. Brynjolf had stood in front of her, an immovable barrier defending her as she fired off shots at those who dared to stray nearer, daring souls venturing too close reduced to ribbons at the behest of his daggers.

More came running, screaming, faces stark in the brilliance of the crackling light.

Too many to fight, too many to even consider making a stand against. She felt the Thu’um swelling in her chest, a storm brewing on her lips, but a heavy crack against her skull rapidly shoved her into senseless oblivion, silencing her. She remembered being dragged, the fervent noise of someone’s frantic shouts becoming muffled, and the flash of a malachite blade.

 _Mjoll_.

Eonwe blinked slowly, clearing her sight, breathing carefully through her nose. Her body ached, her head seemed to swell and shrink with each slow pulse of her heart, blood pounding like the storm. Mjoll was here; she’d been waiting for them. A trap.

 _The bandits…_ Eonwe was willing to bet they weren’t bandits at all. She tried to move, to wriggle her hands free from their binds, but she felt too dizzy to concentrate and slumped, the building sense of dread overloading into outright defeat…

A muffled sound… voices? Her eyes shot open and she stilled, almost holding her breath, straining to hear over the _thud-thud_ of her heart. Someone was nearby. _Better than being here alone_ , she thought. She drummed her heels against the floorboards several times, muffled calls through the gag. _Come and get me! C’mon, you cowards!_

Heavy footfalls landing on each step of the stairs made the hair lift along Eonwe’s arms. A subtle movement in the far corner caught her eye, and out of the dark and into the candle’s glow came a mountain.

He wore ring mail and a hood over his face, the kind an executioner might wear. The muscles of his upper arms bulged as he dragged behind him not a ceremonial axe, but a blunt war hammer, bouncing over the uneven floorboards with a sound that could only be described as death’s approach.

Lifting the war hammer into both hands, Eonwe tensed, feeling the blood rush from her lower extremities as her bowels very nearly turned to water.

 _Coward at last moment, Jorgiis? I’m disappointed_ , a dark voice crooned in her ear. Eonwe fiercely ignored it, holding the torturer’s eyes with every shred of courage she could muster, thinking of Alduin and Harkon and Vyrthur. For kicks, she even thought of Delphine. _Don’t back out now. You’ve faced worse. You’ve braved real monsters._

But the torturer didn’t bring it down; he didn’t smash her to paste. Instead, he set it aside and reached for the knife on the table. Eonwe felt her stomach flop. Being bludgeoned to death was one thing. It hurt more but it was quicker, usually finished in intensely traumatic seconds. A knife on the other hand…

The torturer took hair in hand and wrenched her to her feet. She screamed through the gag, writhing uncontrollably, feeling her scalp tearing at the pull on her hair. The knife flashed, golden in the candlelight, and she jerked as it was imbedded in her side. She seized for a lungful of air, body protesting as it struggled against basic function at the onset of shock, recoiling at the mutilation. The blade came free, blood spluttering and oozing down her side; she only now noticed she’d been stripped of her clothing, save her trousers and tunic, no leather to guard her, no metal to shield her. The blood stain spread, a demented rose blooming open and losing its luster as its center grew dark.

Or maybe that was just her vision going dim.

“I was told to take my time with you.” A slimy voice murmured in her ear, the accent of an Imperial; it crawled over her flesh, and she violently jerked from the touch of his hand on her arm. “Your friend downstairs won’t be waking up anytime soon to help.” Eonwe fixed her eyes on him, seeing two flaming orbs reflected in his dark gaze, and the sound that escaped her was a feral snarl.

“D-demon!” he said shoving her away and into the corner. She held her ground on wobbly legs, staggering as she fought to keep her balance with her arms behind her back. She advanced aggressively, encouraged by his fear, and felt a flicker of triumph as he recoiled.

_That’s right. You’d better be scared. Fear me, worm!_

After a moment’s hesitation, the torturer seized her arm roughly and held her at length, pushing her down the stairs ahead of him; her feet slipped and barely landed on each one, and she collided with the stone wall at the bottom, a bolt of tight hot pain radiating through her side. The bricks were old, the mortar cracked, black mold and tiny green plants growing in abundance in the weakened foundation.

Eonwe was still bleeding, the stain growing ever bigger by the minute. She waded through the heavy dizziness and pried her eyes back open, leaning against the wall to stay upright, seeing the torturer remain at the top of the stairs – either to keep guard and ensure she didn’t run, or keep as well away from her as possible. Eonwe preferred to think the latter. _Stay there and cower, bastard._

The cellar was lit by only a few old lanterns, the rusted metal bright against the black wrought iron. She shuffled forward, body electric with wariness, and emerged from behind a large mead keg. Two ragged figures were seated in chairs, both bound by the wrists with rope and hooded. Eonwe pressed against the side of the mead keg, peering further into the cellar, blinking to keep the black spots at bay. It was hard to breathe. _Please don’t pass out. Stay awake, stay awake…_

Wedging out into the open and feeling horribly exposed, Eonwe inched closer. She heard a sound nearby and ducked behind one of the chairs, thankful the gag kept her gasp muted. She glanced at the bound hands and saw a bronze ring set with a shimmering blue stone, easily recognizable if not for the reddish hairs on his arms. Could she untie his hands from here? She had nothing to cut the rope with, and she couldn’t use her teeth.

A soft grunt alerted her and she stilled, heart drumming madly. She peeked around the side of the chair, seeing only darkness at the farthest end. It was unsettling to look too long. She was almost certain someone was there watching.

Lowering her head, she bumped her chin against Brynjolf’s hands. His fingers brushed against her cheek and, finding the gag, closed around it as she drew her head up, pulling the cloth away from her mouth. She dragged in a grateful breath and eased upright so she was still framed behind him and out of sight, but high enough to speak in his ear.

“I need you to stay as quiet as you can. I can burn the ropes,” she whispered; he shivered slightly at her breath tickling his neck. “I’m sorry but it’s going to hurt.”

Crouching and fighting the urge to close her eyes to the swimming heaviness tugging her eyelids, she judged her aim and took several deep breaths before letting the Thu’um free. _Yol._

The ropes caught quickly and she cringed as his hands curled into fists, the delicate skin blistering and reddening quickly at the intense heat. A rush of burning hair and skin made her stomach twist unpleasantly. The ropes, charred and blackened, broke away like feathers, and she repressed her guilt at the angry burns marring his wrists.

“We need to hurry,” Eonwe said softly, staggering to her feet as he tore the hood from his head and yanked the gag free. She caught a glimpse of his face, set as stone and unreadable.

 _I’m sorry_ , she thought remorsefully, turning her back so he could untie her binds. The moment she was free, he was untying Delvin and gingerly drawing the hood from his head.

At first, Eonwe didn’t recognize him. His hair and beard had grown out, and his cheeks were sunken, eyes set in deep depressions. His nose had been broken, the purplish bulge across the bridge painful to look at. He looked a fair bit better than poor Vex, but Eonwe still felt uncomfortable as she studied him. He didn’t appear to be breathing, and she moved closer to look at him better. Something wasn’t… quite right.

Eonwe leaned closer, ignoring Brynjolf’s irritated grumble, mapping the face from the one she knew in her memory. The slope of his brow and the tip of his nose, even damaged as it was, was all wrong. A close replica though. A thoughtful ruse, the hair and broken nose enough to throw the unobservant eye off, but she saw right past it.

 _A clever trap_ , a voice murmured in Eonwe’s ear and her eyes went to the dark end of the cellar. A tingle of knowing trickled through her blood and she felt her veins become ice. Straightening and ignoring the biting ache in her side, she picked up one of the lanterns.

“What are you doing?” Brynjolf hissed.

“Something isn’t right,” Eonwe said quietly, striding into the darkness, the glow of the lantern illuminating the space. She saw barrels lining the walls and loose moldy straw on the floor, and the smell of decay filled her nose. She gripped the lantern’s handle and went a few steps more, eyes scanning, body thrumming with fear.

 _Delvin_ , she reached out with her mind. _Are you here? Are you alive?_

A grey blur shot out of the dark and between her feet and she shrieked, nearly dropping the lantern in her haste to avoid the small fleeing creature. It was only a rat, scurrying away, its long thin tail disappearing into the barrels. She retained a better grip on the lantern, breathing slowly to calm her racing heart, turning to peer into the gloom, and saw something on the floor amidst the strewn straw. It was small and glittering, and she bent to pick it up. A single golden coin.

There were more of them, scattered around, some of them caked with rust. She lifted the lantern higher to see better. The coins were shiny, and she could see splatters of blood on the stone. _What is this?_ She thought, taking another step forward, leaning down to see into the corners to find its source. _Was someone beaten here?_

She straightened, about to ask Brynjolf if anyone else had been down here, when the glow of the lantern fell on something remarkably akin to a pair of human feet, hovering a few inches from the ground. A chill ran up her spine.

Eonwe lifted stepped forward and held up the lantern.

He hung from the wall, bolts driven through his hands and shoulders. He had been slashed to pieces, the tattered remains of his tunic stiff with dried blood; one of his eyes were gone, an empty hollow boring out from a motionless grey face, and his mouth was stuffed with coins. Flies buzzed around, crawling over his forehead and around his nose. On his chest, drawn in blood, was a single letter.

_M_

The lantern’s handle slipped from her fingers and crashed to the stone, the glass shattering into a million crystal fragments, and the mangled body of Delvin Mallory vanished as it went dark.

She heard the splintering crash of wood and a shout – was it hers? She was jostled roughly from the side and she staggered away blindly, colliding with the wall. Her throat closed tightly, dry heaving as she fought to breathe over her body’s instinct to retch, the image imprinted on the backs of her eyes.

_He’s dead. Delvin is dead._

Eonwe found herself on the ground, pressed against the wall as tightly as she could, unable to stand any longer. She felt hysterical and knew she would become unhinged if she tried to speak. Silence protected her, smothering the panic, sealing the cracks, soothing the rash of bleak grief dawning over her.

_Sanity is the illusion. Insanity is a frame of mind uncaged from falsities._

It was only then she noticed the fighting.

The impersonator had Brynjolf on the floor, one hand choking him while the other strained to claim the knife just out of his reach. It lay between him and Eonwe. She stared stupidly for a second before a collective chorus of bodily reactions snapped at the same time, and she threw herself on the knife. She didn’t hesitate and drove it into the impersonator’s shoulder, the steel skittering off bone. He yelled out and Brynjolf gained the upper hand, wrenching out the blade and flipping the man over, his voice rumbling with the force of sheer anger. She didn’t hear what he said, but she did see him put the knife to the man’s throat, and Eonwe squeezed her eyes shut tightly.

_Don’t watch._

It was safe behind closed eyes.

She stayed in the dark, the precious, beautiful darkness. She didn’t have to see the blood gushing around Brynjolf’s hands, or watch him pull Delvin’s corpse off the wall, or see him drag his crimson-slicked fingers through his hair as he struggled with his own grip on sanity. She couldn’t find the ability to let it back in – she couldn’t _accept_ that Delvin was dead.

 _My fault, it’s my fault, he’s dead because of me_.

All the while, as she pressed her temple against the cold stone to ground her flailing center. There was something, _something_ , nagging her. _Death is necessary. No life without…_ She shook her head, ignoring the gentle tugs on her arms; ignoring the soothing croon subduing her.

_No!_

If she looked, if she saw… _oh Gods, if she saw_.

She stifled a sob, pressing her hands to her face. _Delvin, I tried. It didn’t work. I didn’t save you. I can’t help the Guild—_

Hands fastened to her shoulders and she looked through blurry eyes at Brynjolf kneeling in front of her. She could see tear tracks on his cheeks and she lifted a hand, tracing them: Still wet. He was saying something but she couldn’t understand over the roaring. She frowned, trying to listen, trying to understand him by the movement of his lips. Fur? No, no she knew the word. The word echoed within her skull, the blazing soul of is combustion roaring to ignition, gloriously and devastatingly incinerating.

 _Fire_.

The smell of smoke filled her nose and she coughed at the bitterness, looking up above their heads. The boards were seeping with black smoke, filtering down into the cellar, the rotted wood scorching as the flames began to devour it.

“--on fire!” Brynjolf shouted into her ear. “C’mon, lass!”

The smoke was growing thicker; she covered her mouth with the end of her tunic; the pungent stink of her own blood was sickening. She barely registered the stabbing throb in her side as she stumbled after Brynjolf toward the stairs. She twisted at the last moment, struggling in his grasp to return to Delvin – _What if he isn’t dead? What if there’s still time?_ – but Brynjolf fastened his hold all the tighter.

As though aware of their approach, the roof gave a groan and splintered, a section of blazing timber collapsing onto the stairs and barring their passage. Brynjolf pushed Eonwe back as the flames hurtled toward them, blocking her with his body against the wall as sparks flew, bright orange and yellow. Another section crumbled down behind them and barred the way to the other side of the warehouse’s basement, preventing them from returning to Delvin even if they wanted to; had she gotten free, she would be there or buried beneath the rubble.

 _Don’t have much of a choice on how I die_ , she thought with a fragment of grim humor, coughing as she inhaled a lungful of smoke. If they didn’t burn to death, they would surely suffocate. Eonwe preferred neither.

“What do we do?” she heard her voice rasp.

“I was hoping you would come up with a brilliant plan at the last minute.” His sarcasm held a bite. She looked at him sharply but held her tongue, keeping from making a rebuttal. Brynjolf looked very nearly close to losing his mind altogether, but she didn’t blame him. Not with his best friend dead and his own life at present threatened.

“The only way in and out was this,” she gestured to the collapsed stairs blazing with flames. “Unless we knock a wall down…”

“Aye, shall I get right to it?” he mocked, rolling up his sleeves. He winced a little as he rubbed the blisters on his wrist. Eonwe seized the front of his shirt and pulled on it, her tolerance reduced to shreds, and forced him to look at her.

“First, you’re being an arse,” she growled, tugging hard when he began to protest. “And second, I wouldn’t give a damn what was standing in my way if you were on the other side, so help me find a way out of here.”

Brynjolf gazed at her blankly for a second, then nodded silently.

A rapid search of the floor found no trapdoors or hidden passages, and Eonwe saw no weak spots. Despite the weakened foundation, the bricks were far too large and heavy to consider shifting, and they didn’t have the time to craft something for leverage. Eonwe whirled around frantically, her lungs acrid with smoke, her head heavy with exhaustion and her stomach sick with the constantly-pumping adrenaline.

Could she use the _Thu’um_ to blast down the wall? The lake was right outside and would come rushing in, flooding the space in rapid seconds, and all she could think of was drowning in a flaming cage of murky water and charcoal debris. She put the idea to the back of her mind as a final option.

The locked door of the office beneath the stairwell refused to give regardless of how many times she tried shoving into it; blackness threatened to engulf her vision entirely and she staggered to a barrel before her legs gave out. She felt the raw edge of the wound in her side, and her fingers came away slick with fresh crimson. Brynjolf crouched beside her and she tried to hide her hand, but he caught her arm, stopping her.

“It’s just a scratch—no, you don’t have to do that…” she protested as he tried to see the severity of the wound. The rent, painful edges made it look worse than it was, but damned if it didn’t sting. But she didn’t want him to see it.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she mumbled, seeing the worried emerald gaze. “I’m still flesh and bone.”

“Didn’t say you weren’t,” he ran his thumb over her cheek through the layers of soot and tear tracks. His hands were filthy, covered in blood and grime and unmentionable substances she didn’t even want to consider, but she yearned for the warmth of his touch and leaned into it against her will, clinging to the one thing cementing her to this world. Eonwe held his gaze for a moment, suddenly as exposed and vulnerable as the gash in her side. She wanted to say… what did she want to say? The words were burning there on the tip of her tongue yet shoved so far down her throat.

An ominous groan above their heads and a shower of dust was their sole warning, and in the next second, the floorboards were crashing down. Smoke rolled into the cellar, a smothering blanket. Timbers bounced and ricocheted as they collapsed with the crumbling warehouse, and something heavy fell across Eonwe’s chest, knocking the wind out of her lungs. She opened her eyes and saw orange fire leaping for the blue sky, concealed behind a wall of pluming grey.

Eonwe got her hands under the beam and shoved, groaning with the effort, the muscles in her arms flimsy and protesting. The wound in her side bled a small puddle of steaming red below her, its warm trickle ringing a bell of warning in the back of her head.

 _Too much… it’s too much!_ A painful keening rose from her throat and her arms gave out, weak and exhausted from the incredible pain. The timber thumped into place. Above, the roaring flames climbed to new heights.

_We’re going to die here._

Brynjolf was beside her, buried under a mound of debris, dusted with the settling ash. He was unnaturally still.

Terror ascended to an unshackled wrath that lent her strength, and she turned her face to the sky, summoning the last of her strength and propelling it from her body. A final cry for help.

_“ODAHVIING!”_

Her head fell back, a dull thump as she lost consciousness.

∞

The weight on his back was absurd, pushing the air out of his lungs. He strained to push himself upright, feeling the wreckage wedge loose and scatter away as he managed to get himself on his knees. His unfocused sight fell on the body a few feet ahead of him, trapped beneath a wooden beam. Her eyes were closed, long lashes coated with silver ashes.

Brynjolf reached her with his heart in his mouth, heaving the timber off her chest and pulling her into his arms. He felt wetness against his hand and it came away soaked in red. All coherent thought halted at the sight.

 _But you don’t know how hard this is for me._ Eonwe’s words rang in his ears _. You don’t know the half of it. I’m afraid I’ll drop down dead tomorrow._

_I don’t know how much time I have left._

A roar and a buffeting of wind startled him, and a thunderous vibration shook the warehouse. Massive ebony talons dug into the flaming roof and pried it free, wrenching it away and sending grey columns of smoke into the sky. Brynjolf squinted through the falling debris and saw a great pair of mantled wings and a mighty head, plunging into the wreck, a looming yellow eye coming in close.

Eonwe moved in Brynjolf’s arms, a line creasing the space between her brows, and relief crashed over him, the wave nearly enough to send him headlong to the debris-littered floor. He looked up at the massive dragon looming above and the words were caught in his throat, so he reached up and gingerly rested his hand above the flaring nostril.

The dragon bared his teeth in what could only be described as a grimacing smile, and the great eyes blinked, the liquid shine glazing the rich golden iris.

“ _Drem yol lok, fahdon_ ,” Odahviing rumbled. “I will carry you to safety.”

∞

Dropping the last handful of dirt on the grave, Eonwe sat back on her heels, staring at the disturbed bit of ground where her friend was buried. _Where will he go? Will Sithis claim him for the Void, or will Nocturnal feel merciful enough to bring him to Gallus’ side in the Evergloam, even if he wasn’t a Nightingale?_

She would never know. Somehow, not knowing what journey his soul would have to make hurt her fiercely, and her tears were renewed. She looked over at where Brynjolf kneeled in the shade of the slender aspens shielding the grave from wind and rain, and her distress mounted at the sight of his face. _I’m so sorry, Bryn. I’m sorry I couldn’t save him for you_.

Along with the help of Odahviing, they had retrieved Delvin’s body from the depths of the swamped shell of the warehouse, half-sunken into the lake. Had the dragon not come for them as quickly as he had, they would still be in there, entombed in a grave of water and ash.

Wiping her face, her hand coming away with smoke-blackened water, Eonwe reached forward and pressed a hand to the soft brown dirt of the grave. She felt a small smile on her lips, but it quickly wobbled and broke at the tight pain in her chest.

“I can’t tell you in words how much you meant to us, and to me,” she said. “Thank you for everything you did; for all of those chances; for believing in me when no one else did. I’ll see you again one day, alright?” The last words came hardest, a choked whisper. “We’ll keep Vex out of trouble, I promise.”

She gave Brynjolf a moment of his own, brushing dirt and grass from her knees, through it mattered little and made no difference to the state of her clothes. Odahviing crouched some ways off, regarding the meager ceremony with a slight cock to his head. “ _Dov_ do not grieve as _joor_ do,” he told Eonwe as she neared. “It is not for us to linger in loss.”

“Well, welcome to your first human funeral,” she said, slightly bitter. “A little respect goes a long way. Helps us get past it… sometimes doesn’t.”

The dragon grumbled. It sounded like a laugh. “I do know the concept of respect, _thuri_. And I offer it to your _fahdon_. He was important among the _joor?_ ”

Eonwe couldn’t help a small smile. “Yes. Yes, he was important,” she agreed. “He will be missed. He taught me a lot… bit like a mentor. Like how Paarthurnax is teaching the others.”

“And now… you do not grieve,” Odahviing said with a range of tenderness she didn’t expect for a dragon. “Instead, you honour his memory. _Zu’u dovah_. I honour the fallen of my brethren.”

Gathering his wings, the red dragon launched into the sky and, with a single call of farewell, winged to his domain in the west. Eonwe watched him go for a moment before going to the water’s edge to wash her face and hands. She looked down at the rippling water and saw her reflection, her reddened nose and puffy eyes, her hair clinging to her cheeks, and everything in between smeared with dirt and smoke.

“You can’t save everyone,” the reflection said.

_You can’t be distracted by things you can’t help._

Delvin had once said those words to her; she knew them like the back of her hand. She didn’t understand them then, but now she did, and her gut instinct was to rebel. _No. I’ll try harder._ She would. She _had_ to.

The wind ruffled her tunic and she looked down, pulling the hem upwards. She touched her side, gently running her fingers over the wound. No more than clean white scar tissue, slightly raised, barely tender. An old war wound, one might say, long since healed from the days of battle… and yet she knew it was barely an hour old. Eonwe stared at the curving white line, tracing it thoughtfully.

The wind off the lake caressed her fire-blistered cheeks, gentle as a mother’s touch.

∞

Brynjolf watched the dragon lift into the sky and fly away, his parting roar a gentle farewell on the wind. Eonwe went to the lake’s edge to wash her face and hands, disappearing as she bent to the water.

He looked down at the grave by his feet. It crushed him like a blow from a war hammer to the heart. He gazed out at the glass surface of the lake, grey under the sky, grey like the ashes of his nightmares. He didn’t much believe in curses, he never had, but perhaps…

Perhaps.

“What do I do, Del?” he asked hollowly. “Where do we go from here?”

 


	19. Chapter 19

The drop of blood ran down the end of her finger; hanging for a fruitless heartbeat, it plunged to the floorboards and left a small gleaming stain in the knotted grey wood. Another lustrous bead joined its brother, its descent slow, a residual trail of crimson in its wake. The wound had come open again in her sleep when she turned onto her side, the scabs parting as they cracked and bled.

Her last memory was of the cell door swinging open on ungreased hinges, pitifully loud, a shriek in her ears. The torturer holding a long-handled mace, the blunt iron bound with strips of grime-stained cloth, made for bruising muscle and breaking bones. The crunch of her nose shattering through her head, the ringing cry through clenched teeth as her eye burst in its socket. Half-blind and deafened by the thunderous drumming, the torturer brought the mace down and she went limp, held by her wrists in the unforgiving shackles cutting into her wrists.

Vex gingerly touched her fingers to her cheek, finding the scabbed-over weal; the only wound administered by Mjoll herself, when she spat in the bitch’s face and reinforced knuckles flew, hard enough to tear her face in two. She remembered the blaze of fury in the warrior’s eyes, the lust for brutality just lingering below the surface, a demon coiled to pounce.

_“You’ll have to do a lot more to break me!” she snarled, grinning through bared, bloody teeth._

_Mjoll left the cell, sent her torturer back in, and ordered him to do his worst._

Vex kept her eyes open, watching a third bead of blood dangle from her fingertip. Sometimes, it was hard to close her eyes. She saw things she wished she’d never seen; she felt things better left forgotten. The blood clung to her finger, holding fast with all its strength. She had never given in, never surrendered. Mjoll would never have her submission.

Had Delvin held out until the end? Had he still lived when the bolts pierced his body; when Mjoll gorged out his eye; when she choked him with gold? Vex heard herself make a small, involuntary sound in her throat. Brynjolf had been the one to tell her; she’d listened in complete, unwavering silence as he quietly recounted the thief’s death by the light of a single candle, hunched forward in the chair beside her bed, weighed down by loss. She’d been able to do nothing save hear the words streaming from his mouth, rendering her speechless with horror. He’d grieved and she’d still done nothing. Silence had become her, a listener to all wrong in their world.

Tears welled into her light eyes, hot tracks turned cool as they wetted the hair at her temples. Not of grief but of helplessness, of anguish. Of broken will and kindled rage.

Fingers twisting into claws, she let the blood drop fall.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! I'm sorry about keeping you waiting. This one's a bit longer (nearly 8k) and I hope you enjoy it. Thank you for reading, as always.

_4E 203, 4 th of Hearthfire _

The mist evaporated with the cresting sun and the stone walls of the city were cast in hues of soft gold, bathing Solitude in the warm light of dawn. A flawless autumn day, the light streamed through a stained-glass window of a high-class boudoir, depicting a scene of divine benevolence, splashes of cobalt and emerald patterning the soft down-stuffed quilt spread out over the four-poster bed. Red dapples shone on the light-golden wood of the vanity, where a crystal bottle of perfume sat uncorked, the amber fragrance produced from the rare yellow-petalled florae.

Thane Bryling reached for the small crystal bottle, upending it to drip a few precious drops onto her fingers and dab the scent to her wrist and throat. She set the delicate vial aside, smiling as she admired it and at the sweet scent it produced; one of the rare gifts from her lover, Falk knew of her quieter pleasures in life, and the perfume had come with his wishes to court her. It never failed to make her think of him, or he of the time when their love first blossomed.

But a difficult love. Falk’s loyalty remained strong to the Empire in the south and he believed in all the late Jarls of Solitude had once stood for. Peace. Unity. He was assured in his place, focused and genial, accepting of change but only when necessity demanded it for the betterment of the majority. Bryling was divided in her loyalties; while not a widely-known fact and mercifully kept behind closed doors, it was her undying belief Skyrim could be strengthened by independence and separated from the constraints of the Empire. It left conversations regarding politics and beliefs… tender.

Bryling loved Falk – save their one unyielding obstacle – and while it wasn’t in her heart to change his mind or sway his opinion, she hoped he would someday see it from her view. She couldn’t fathom a Skyrim united to the Empire forever, surely. Change was imminent, as certain as the sky was blue, and Bryling felt a quiet joy at knowing her people wouldn’t remain leashed to the controlling grip of the Dominion for eternity.

She looked at the crystal vial and smiled, its very sight an immense token of fondness. He would notice her wearing it today; she hoped it would serve its purpose in lightening the mood within the Blue Palace. The funeral arrangements for the late jarl were finished, her body entombed beneath Solitude, protected by the love and offerings of the province’s nobility and bereaving admirers. Her final wishes were to be read the following afternoon, and among them Bryling knew Elisif had wanted Torygg’s war horn placed at the Shrine of Talos within the border of Whiterun. A visitation to Jarl Balgruff was in order to arrange the appropriate privileges.

In the crystal’s reflection, Bryling saw her bedroom door open, but the lithe shadow was unfamiliar. She turned in her chair, half-rising with a question on her lips.

The vial shattered on the floor as she collapsed with a resounding thump.

∞

The gulls and terns were shrieking out over the harbour, casting fleeting black shadows on the weathered wooden docks, drumming hollowly beneath Eonwe’s boots as she hefted the heavy crate laden with sacks. The water was black and briny, the currents surging waves up against barnacle-infested hulls, the creak of wood and the clang of a bronze bell the music of the harbour, broken by the clamour of screeching birds swooping and diving for fish.

A cold northern wind whipped her hair back from her face, wicking away the sweat of exertion, and she paused for a moment, its chill bringing tears to her eyes. She gazed out at the far shores beyond the great stone arch, through which the wind howled with a wolfen ferocity. On those far horizons, miles across the Sea of Ghosts haunted by the ancient men and women who’d brought the culture and rituals of Atmora to Skyrim, was the vast unknown – a land none who lived today would ever see or touch. Only the wind united them; only the wind could whisper tales too soft for the Nords to hear.

Eonwe adjusted her grip on the crate’s handles and followed the docks up, staggering slightly under the arduous weight, her stride absurd and ungainly as she struggled to retain her balance with the spices in tow.

Panting laboriously as she reached the road, she was half-frustrated and half-amused at her idiotic willingness to agree to bringing Evette San the spices withheld by the East Empire Company. She waddled to a fallen log at the roadside, set the crate on the mossy bark, and heard her joints pop as she eased her aching legs down to sit for a minute and catch her breath. There had to be at least eighty pounds of imported spices in the crate, and as delicious as they smelled beneath her chin, she hoped to never encounter those particular spices – or the spiced wine – for a very long time. This was one errand done out of the kindness of her heart she’d sooner forget.

A shadow fell over her head and she looked down at the plated fur boots and the hem of a red sash. An Imperial blade hung at the hip, and the Wolf of Solitude’s black eyes bored at Eonwe from its place in the center of the red-and-white painted shield. The guard was glaring at the crate of spices in suspicion.

“Where’d you get this crate, citizen?” he demanded.

“From the holding warehouse down there,” Eonwe answered honestly, gesturing in the vague direction of where she’d spent the last half hour arguing with Vittoria Vici about releasing the shipment. She doubted she could convince this guard with the same offer of providing a few bottles of spiced wine for _his_ wedding, and she reached for the crate, intending to finish the errand and get on with the rest of the day. She did, after all, have other important matters to attend – including a delicate meeting with Gulum-Ei involving displacing a supply of weapons from Black Marsh. “I’ll be going, if you don’t mind,” she added politely, hefting the crate and dreading the steep climb ahead of her.

“Hold there. Are those spices?” the guard stopped her with a hand on her arm, and she gave him a stern look.

“Yes. What of it?”

“Where are you taking them?”

“They’re for Evette San. I really must be going…” her hands were beginning to sweat, and she wrapped her fingers around the handles tighter, hoping she wouldn’t drop the damned thing on the guard’s toes.

“Have these been approved by customs?”

“How should I know?”

The guard had begun poking about the sacks. “We’ve had large volumes of moon sugar being imported from Elsweyr. Have these been checked?”

“How would I bloody know? I’m just the deliverer,” Eonwe exclaimed, and hoisted the crate up for a better grip. She was considering dropping it on him after all, to be damned with the consequences. “Ask the warehouse people if you’re so concerned – better yet, talk to Vittoria Vici. I just dealt with her.”

“You don’t look like a deliverer,” the guard pointed out, visibly raking his eyes over her travelling leathers, better suited for trekking long distances, plundering ancient fanes in the wilds, or fighting bandits in overridden military towers. All she needed was her bow and a sword, or a great big, red flag waving and signalling, ‘I’m a member of the Thieves Guild! Arrest me!’

Eonwe snorted and took a determined step forward. “This is _really_ heavy and I have a delivery to make,” she said firmly. “Good day to you.”

“Very well, citizen. Go ahead, but I am keeping my eyes on you,” the guard at last relented, shuffling forward and resuming his patrol of the road over the docks. Eonwe rolled her eyes at his back and would’ve made a rude gesture with her fingers, if not for the cursed crate, and so she readjusted her hold and started up the hill.

Not ten minutes passed before someone was yelling at the top of their extremely healthy lungs behind her, and Eonwe risked a quick glance back, fury boiling in her veins. Gods forbid it be the guard coming back to harass her some more…

Instead, she saw a scraggly boy with unkempt red hair and wearing a too-big tunic that had once been white but had faded since to the colour of spoilt milk. The boy stopped, panting with his hands on his knees – very dirty knees, caked with mud – as were his grimy palms.

“Err… hello?” Eonwe began hesitantly, not sure how to start the conversation the child had apparently seemed so eager to have. She moved the edge of the crate onto her hip and waited as the boy straightened.

“What’s in the box?” he asked without preliminaries.

“Spices... what does it matter? And why is everyone so interested in this damned-” She stopped, slightly ashamed at her temper. It wasn’t the boy’s fault. “Sorry, you don’t need to hear that. I’m trying to carry this up to the city for someone.”

“It looks really heavy. Want some help?” the boy offered brightly.

“Uh… sure. Careful, I’m not fooling around when I say it’s heavy.” Eonwe lowered the crate to the ground and took one of the handles, letting the boy take the other side. He grunted loudly as he hoisted it up, but didn’t complain, instead taking the lead with bold determination.

“What’s it for?” the boy asked after a few moments.

“It goes in wine. Why do you ask?”

“I dunno. Just curious, I guess,” he paused to wipe his nose on the ragged edge of his sleeve. “Nothing exciting happens on the farm.”

“You work on the farm?” Eonwe asked, making polite conversation.

“It’s so _boring_ ,” he appealed with a plaintive look of wide, guileless eyes. They were as blue as sapphires. “I want to go on adventures. Do you go on adventures? I haven’t seen you in the city before.”

“Oh, I’m just visiting the city for work.”

“What kind of job do you do?”

“Um… deliveries. Errands. I collect things for people.” _It’s not exactly a lie._

“Wow! Have you been to lots of places? Where have you gone?”

“Well, I’ve been all over,” Eonwe smiled, deciding to humour the boy. “I’ve visited all of the cities in Skyrim.”

“Did you see the palace in Whiterun? They had a _real live_ dragon there. I wish I could have seen it,” he lamented, then brightened in the same heartbeat to say, “Have you ever seen a dragon? Up close?”

“Ye-es, I have. They’re not as nice to look at when they’re trying to eat you.”

“You _fought_ a dragon?” the boy stopped outright and nearly dropped his end of the crate in excitement. “Cool! Did you win?”

“I wouldn’t be standing here if I didn’t,” Eonwe said meekly, knowing where the conversation was leading. “But I didn’t slay it.”

“Course you didn’t,” he said skeptically. “Only the Dragonborn can slay dragons. Everyone knows that.”

“Is that so?”

“Well…” he shrugged bashfully. “Everyone says so. I overheard the other farmhands talking about it. They were really excited about it. I saw one once – a dragon. It was out there, flying in and out of the arch. It was really cool, but I’m glad it didn’t get too close. The horses act all scared and stuff when there’s one hanging about.”

“Do you get dragons in Solitude often?” Eonwe ventured. They were nearly at the top of the hill. The carriage was full of people leaving the city, the wheels bumping on the cobblestones as it departed for Dragon Bridge.

“Nah. One flew over the city, but that was ages ago. Besides, the dragons are all gone. Except for the red one.”

Eonwe felt a cold finger trace up her spine at the child’s words. “The red one?” she repeated.

“You didn’t hear about it?” the boy looked surprised at her ignorance. “There was a dragon seen outside Riften last month. People were saying it was the same one the Jarl and the Dragonborn captured.”

“Did they… uh… did they mention anything else?”

“I think they said something about a fire on the docks. One of the old warehouses went up like a pyre. Dragons like fire, right? It must have seen the smoke from miles off. It makes sense to me.”

“I suppose it does,” Eonwe laughed, hoping to abate her unease, setting the crate on the stone ledge by one of the watchtowers overlooking the road heading out of the city. “Well, you’ve done a great job helping me out. Let me see if I’ve got an extra coin…”

“Does your job pay really well?” the boy asked, squinting in the sunlight as he looked up at Eonwe.

“I get by well enough,” she came up with two septims and a sapphire in one pocket. As she hunted through the other, she realized she was still carrying the jet-beaded amulet and a copy of the ring on her finger – the ones she’d retrieved from Castle Dour. She’d forgotten to give them back to Brynjolf. _Another to-do on the checklist_.

Eonwe handed the boy the two coins and, after a moment’s thought, included the sapphire. His eyes were huge at the sight of the jewel. “Here you go.”

“Thanks, ma’am. That’s really nice of you. I’m Blaise, by the way,” he introduced, holding out his hand. She took it, giving it a professional shake.

“Eonwe. Good meeting you, Blaise.”

She watched the boy troop off, the sun catching his red hair and bringing a fond smile to her mouth. Brynjolf had once been as young as he, and in not so different a predicament – scraping by with hardly a coin to his name. A dark thought crossed her mind.

“Blaise!” she called, and the boy glanced back.

“It’s not always exciting like the stories. It’s dangerous out there,” she warned. “Just so you know… when you start adventuring.”

“It’ll be better than weeding the garden and cleaning the chicken coop everyday,” he looked down at his earnings in his hand. “I might use this to convince Katla to let me start sleeping inside. The stable’s real cold at night.”

“The stab… Blaise, why do you sleep outdoors?” Eonwe left the crate as she went to the boy, her chest constricting. “Where is your family?”

“Gone,” he shuffled his feet together. The soles of his shoes were so thin, he ought to feel the hard cobbles pressing into his feet. “They were in the Legion. There was an ambush and… they didn’t come home.”

_Another lost to the bloody war. Will it never end?_

“…I’m sorry,” Eonwe said gently; the weight of remorse was stifling. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

“Don’t feel sorry for me, okay?” Blaise said firmly. “Everyone else does. You’re the first person to make me feel like I’m not some snivelling little child.”

 _But you are a child, Blaise_. “I don’t pity you. I lost my family, too.”

“Are you an orphan like me?”

Eonwe crouched and squeezed the boy’s thin little shoulder. He had to be no more than eight or nine. Looking into his blue eyes, dry but not without a gleam of sadness, she was reminded of the little girl in Windhelm she’d promised so much but ultimately left behind in the care of others. _Sofie_.

Eonwe wondered, not without a stab of piercing guilt, where she was now.

“Yeah. I suppose I am,” she murmured. “But I’m not alone. Not really. I have others in my life who’ve come and gone. No one is alone forever. Even if it _is_ horses and chickens,” she added with a smile. Blaise grinned.

“Do me a favour and keep that sapphire. It might bring you luck someday,” Eonwe added, taking it and placing it in Blaise’s tunic pocket, close to his heart. “I’m sure Katla has enough heart to let you sleep on the kitchen hearthrug, if you get all your chores done _without_ complaining.”

Blaise rolled his eyes in mock-annoyance and scampered off, and Eonwe heard the frantic clucking of hens as he disappeared into the stable yard over the hill. Retrieving the crate, she looked up the hill and stiffened her shoulders. “No complaining, Jorgiis,” she told herself firmly, and started the climb.

∞

Setting the crate with a heavy thump on the edge of the wine stand, Eonwe accepted the hefty purse containing her payment and quickly turned down the offering of the blasted spiced wine as a gift, privately relieved to be rid of the burdening weight.

The merchants were hollering deals and bargains at the top of their lungs, trying to draw even the most cautious of buyers with ludicrous discounts or fanciful descriptions of their wares. Eonwe enviously watched the exchange of glittering jeweled brooches, yards of imported silk and spools of springy white wool, baskets of ripe fruit and loaves of fresh-baked bread, shining bottles of spirits – as customers parted with their hard-earned profits. The glint of gold disappearing into purses made Eonwe’s fingers itch, and she looked down at her hands.

 _Hands that have taken and saved lives both_.

It would be easy to cut a few purses and make off with her pockets brimming with stolen trinkets, but she didn’t want to. A powerful resistance held her back, her conscious clear and unburdened by shame or guilt. _I’m not a thief anymore_ , she thought, watching a well-dressed Breton woman not much older than herself scrambling to keep control of her two troublesome children, her purse unattended at her side.

One of the children fell and skinned her knee on the cobbles, letting out a piercing cry. A man carrying parcels higher than his head was coming, the child directly in his path, and Eonwe rushed forward, grasping the wailing child and hauling her out of the way. The man with the parcels sidestepped in the nick of time, and the mother was looming down beside Eonwe, as white as the lace on the cap pinned to her ash-blonde curls.

“By Mara, how can I repay you?” she fretted, gathering her daughter in her arms and hoisting her up. The girl wrapped her arms around her mother’s neck and squalled. “She would’ve been trod on if not for your quick actions!”

“You should watch your children more closely!” the parcel-bearer was expostulating, mopping his sweaty brow with a handkerchief. “They could’ve been seriously injured!”

“If you were watching where you were going,” Eonwe began angrily, stepping forward to defend the young mother, but a gentle hand laid on her arm prevented her from continuing.

“My children are safe, thanks to you. And I’m certain he’ll be more careful,” she added with a firm look. The parcel-bearer frowned but gave her a curt nod, muttered a small word of apology, and sidestepped to continue on his way.

Then he paused, squinting at Eonwe, and juggled the parcels onto one arm as he dug in the leather satchel at his side.

Producing a letter, he held it out to her with a sneer. “I believe the court mage intended this for you.”  Eonwe took the letter, not quite knowing what to say, and he abruptly turned his back and carried on his way.

“Will she be alright?” Eonwe asked as the girl’s crying quieted to infrequent hiccups. Her face was as red as a beetroot and her nose was running, but the scrape on her knee was only a little red. No serious harm done, thankfully.

“No need to be concerned,” the young mother soothed, wiping her daughter’s face with a handkerchief while the boy – barely a year older – gazed at Eonwe with rapt attention. Eonwe stuck her tongue out at him and he giggled, ashen curls bouncing around his cherubic face.

The mother glanced up from tending to her daughter. “But you’re very kind. I’ll have to keep a better eye on them with the talk of dragons, though they’re very far away.”

“Better they stay wherever they are,” Eonwe agreed. “Solitude’s a good place to raise young ones. There’s a lot of opportunity here.”

“True, but the same extends to those damnable thieves,” she said angrily, taking her son’s hand tightly as he attempted to wander off. “Just yesterday, I found my grandmother’s brooch missing. A gift from my grandfather to her on their fiftieth anniversary, now in some thief’s trophy box! Those pearls and diamonds meant more than a few thousand septims!” She turned her devastated gaze to Eonwe, full of angered tears. “I came out with the children to speak to the authorities about having someone look for the thieves, but no one would listen! It’s frightening, knowing the city is harbouring criminals with nothing being done about it.”

“It might not have been the thieves,” Eonwe suggested. “But if I see it, I’ll bring it back to you.”

“You would? Oh, darling, aren’t you the sweetest?” Anger melting instantly, she leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to Eonwe’s cheek, then blushed bright pink. She looked down at her children. “Did you hear that, dears? This lady is going to look for granny’s brooch. Isn’t that wonderful?”

“It’s the least I can do to keep the peace.”

“And _so_ humble! My residence is by the College, so you know where to find me. I’m sharing the manor with another family while we stay in Skyrim.”

“You’re visiting?” Eonwe asked curiously.

“From Wayrest. My name’s Madeleine,” she offered her gloved hand. “Madeleine Frey. These two are Margaret – Maggie for simplicity’s sake – and Mercer.”

A jolt of lightning coursed through Eonwe’s body at the touch of her hand, and she suddenly recognized the ash-blonde hair and sea-green eyes with an unpleasant shock. “Mercer?” she echoed.

“I named him for my brother. He’s quite a few years older than I, so I never had the fortune of knowing him well. Word within the family is he came to Skyrim when I was very young. I’m hoping to bump into him eventually and introduce the children to their uncle,” Madeleine shrugged, the casual movement somehow coming across as dainty.

Had her brother done the same, it would have looked indifferent, accompanied by a stinging jeer dripping with sardonic humour.

Eonwe could hardly believe her eyes – or ears – and believe this lady was a blood relative of Mercer Frey. It was as if the world was laughing at some cruel joke. _A very cruel joke indeed_ … Eonwe thought sadly, looking at the would-be niece and nephew who’d never have the chance to meet their uncle.

Or maybe it was for the better.

How on Nirn would she tell Madeleine her brother was not only dead but had lived most of his life as a thief? A thief in the very same group Eonwe was a part of? A group of thieves responsible for stealing a family keepsake?

_‘A thief is not permitted to steal from a fellow thief or their family.’_

_Is that you I hear laughing, Nocturnal?_ she thought darkly.

“I’ll bring you that brooch,” Eonwe promised. “Will you be staying in the city long?”

“For another month. I’m attending the wedding ceremony with a family who’s friends of the Vici’s.” Madeleine said. “Will I be lucky enough to see my new friend there?”

“If fortune favours us,” Eonwe said, mentally ticking another to-do on her checklist, “I wouldn’t miss it.”

As Madeleine Frey guided her children away, their ash-blonde heads bobbing adorably, Eonwe felt something crunch in her fingers.

The letter was folded into thirds, sealed with a blob of deep blue wax, still warm and soft to the touch. The insignia stamped into it was unfamiliar – a double ‘S’ cupped in the curve of a waning crescent moon. Eonwe skirted the multitude of coloured skirts and lace, sheltering beneath the arch of one of the shops where she wouldn’t be bothered, and broke the seal. A single line written in midnight blue ink jumped off of the ivory parchment at her, unsigned and ominous.

 

_Dragonborn,_

_Meet me in the cellar of The Winking Skeever at midnight. Come alone._

“This day just keeps getting better and better,” Eonwe grumbled, pocketing the letter.

∞

Midnight was hours away and making rounds from one end of the city to the other was doing absolutely nothing to distract Eonwe from why the court mage wanted to see her (she was questioning whether or not she’d heard right from the courier) and so she made her way back to the Guild to ask about the brooch.

There was a second route leading into the Temple of the Divines; the front door wasn’t necessarily a good entry point for a gaggle of thieves coming in and out at all hours, and none of them looked very… religious… so Karliah had mapped out the underground system and the connected sewers, linked them to the old catacombs, and found several sealed passageways deep below the city, built in the Second or Third Era.

The access point with the shortest hike through the pitch-black corridors was behind Castle Dour, down a narrow alley next to Fletcher’s. Eonwe trailed her fingers along the smooth stone wall as she followed the route, her boots echoing in the darkness, picturing what was outside the wall and whereabouts in Solitude she was at. A ball of flame was cupped in her palm, its heat threatening to scorch her fingers. She’d have to mention adding a couple of wall sconces or holders for torches, though there was no possible way for the thief to get turned around or lost.

The fireball illuminated a wall of boards nailed into a temporary wall, draped with a spare city banner. The wolf glared at Eonwe as she shifted the wall aside and slipped into the treasury, and she carefully returned it to its place. Daro’shan, one of the newest recruits currently tasked with guarding the entrance, nodded politely to Eonwe as she waved hello.

“Can I check the register?” Eonwe asked, approaching the desk and thumbing the large tome used for keeping track of the incoming and outgoing spoils. Daro’shan flicked an ear and resumed reading the book in her hands. It was _FIRE AND DARKNESS_ : _The Brotherhoods of Death by Ynir Gorming_.

“Thinking of joining the Dark Brotherhood?” Eonwe teased.

The Khajiit snorted, curling her lip. “Pffft no. This one prefers to keep her knives clean. Filthy work, assassinating.”

“I don’t blame you,” Eonwe agreed, flipping open the registry and skimming the entries for the past day. “Hmm… we aren’t doing very well. One shipment of imported ebony from Raven Rock, a gold bracelet, a garnet ring – make that two garnet rings… ah, here it is. One pearl-and-diamond silver brooch. Daro’shan, can I see that brooch? I need to show it to Brynjolf or Karliah.”

Without looking up from her page, the Khajiit produced a ring of keys from her pocket and held it up. Eonwe took it and brought it to the large chest – the only chest, she noted– and fit the key into the lock. Twisting it, she hefted the lid up.

No brooch.

“Huh,” she said aloud, double checking the registry. Had it been sent to the black market? There was no indication of it. “The brooch is missing.”

“Daro’shan did not take it,” she hissed. “Speak with others.”

Eonwe dropped the keys on the table and went to find Brynjolf or Karliah.

It was Karliah she found first.

The dark elf was writing in the log book. Rune and Sapphire were at a table by themselves, sharing a few meads. “Job done?” Eonwe queried as she passed.

“Yep. Erikur’s going to be scratching his head wondering where those weapons went,” Sapphire grinned, clinking her mead with Rune’s. “I’m still surprised Gisli asked us to misplace it, seeing she’s a law-abiding citizen and all.”

“But to betray her own brother, and a Thane of Solitude?” Rune questioned.

“Desperate times mean desperate measures,” Karliah said, lifting her head, and noticed Eonwe waiting to talk to her. “Welcome back. You’ve been gone all morning.”

“Running errands takes time. I suppose Gulum-Ei came through and doesn’t need an extra nudge?”

“He gave us no trouble. Even offered to sweeten the deal with an extra crate of moon sugar,” Sapphire lifted one shoulder nonchalantly. “I told him two would keep our lips pursed.”

“We are _not_ in the position to be telling our partners to be keeping quiet. It’s us who needs to be careful,” Karliah interrupted crossly. “Sapphire, you know better. I expect no more of this behaviour next time you’re out.”

“C’mon, Karliah. I don’t need Rune watching my back every time I go out there,” she complained.

“Maybe he _likes_ watching your back?” the not-so-subtle leer from Ilandriel – the wood elf – rang from the corner where she was playing cards with the Breton recruit, Darien Velacroix, who erupted into raucous laughter. Rune flushed dark red and couldn’t meet Sapphire’s penetrating glare across the table. Eonwe noticed how tightly he was clenching his fists, and bit the inside of her lip to keep from smiling. _Poor Rune_. The wood elf had hit the nail squarely on the head.

But Karliah was having none of it. “Sapphire, we’ll have a word later. Eonwe, did you need me?”

“Yes. Can I have a word with you in private?”

The dark elf was on her feet and leading Eonwe down the hall, a silent question in her deep purple eyes. “Judging from that look on your face, it must be very serious. Does it have to do with Brynjolf?”

“Hmm?” Eonwe blinked, taken aback by her frankness. “No, I… he’s not what I’m worried about right now. There’s a brooch missing from the treasury. I met someone in the market place looking for it. They’ve been to the authorities.”

Karliah was confused. “Why does that concern me? Or the Thieves Guild for that matter?”

“Well, as far as I know, one of the rules we live by includes no stealing from a fellow thief. The rule extends to family members of thieves.”

“You’re right, of course. Eonwe, who was this person you met?”

“She was…” she paused to swallow the uncertain lump in her throat. “Her name was Frey. Madeleine Frey.”

Karliah fell silent, her face utterly blank. “Mercer’s sister?”

“It has to be. She looks like him. Her son is named after him,” Eonwe frowned. “It’s too strange to be a coincidence. The brooch was taken from Proudspire Manor.”

“I sent Ilandriel there. I didn’t have a chance to see who was staying there,” Karliah rubbed the line in her forehead in frustration. “I’ll ask her if she kept it. She’s had a habit of keeping some of the things she takes – she thinks they’re rightfully hers once she steals them. A good thief, a better pickpocket, but troublesome.”

“I’ll leave you to handle her. I know she’ll never listen to me, not after that exceedingly warm welcome,” Eonwe said with no small amount of sarcasm. She didn’t like the wood elf’s attitude.

“We can’t afford to be divided right now, but you’re right,” Karliah took her hand and squeezed it in reassurance. “I’ll deal with her and reiterate the rules. It _was_ my mistake for not searching the place and seeing who was residing there.”

“Don’t beat yourself up for not being perfect at something for once,” Eonwe teased gently, prodding the dark elf’s arm. Karliah exhaled heavily, but her lips held the hint of a smile.

“You’re right. I don’t know how Delvin was so organized. Have you tried reading his writing? It’s a mess.”

“Is that before or after he had a few drinks?” They both laughed.

“I miss him,” Karliah said wistfully. “I knew him when we were younger. Gallus really liked him. I did, too.”

“I don’t think anyone _didn’t_ like him,” she pointed out. “But then again, Vex wasn’t very fond of him, was she?”

Karliah chuckled. “Vex would never admit her feelings for anyone, and especially _to_ anyone.”

“Is she doing alright today?” Eonwe sent a glance at the stairwell behind them, where the sleeping quarters were located. “Another sleepless night from what I heard.”

“In time, she’ll be her old self. Some wounds take longer than others,” Karliah murmured. Her eyes dropped, fixing on the corner of white peeking out of Eonwe’s pocket. “Exchanging letters with your secret lover?”

“What?” Eonwe followed her eyes to the letter, startled by the change of conversation. “No, it’s from the court mage.”

Karliah raised her brows. “Special, are we?”

“More along the lines of potentially life-threatening and dangerous,” Eonwe handed her the letter. “They do say Sybille isn’t someone to mess around with. She has a dungeon full of people who’ve displeased her beneath the palace.”

“I have yet to verify the truth in that statement,” Karliah chuckled, handing the letter back. “The writing is hers. I’ve intercepted a few letters in the same hand, and the seal matches every other. I’ll send someone with you to keep watch in case it turns out to be more than you’re bargaining for.”

“What bothers me is she wants the Dragonborn. To the world, the Dragonborn’s supposed to be dead.”

“The court mage has her ways of getting the information she wants,” the dark elf pointed out. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s not the only one who knows you’re alive. But I recommend you go and see what she wants,” she smiled grimly. “Be careful. We don’t need to find out firsthand if she really does have a dungeon.”

∞

The streets were barren all but for a few patrolling guards, the weak light of their torches emitting a cold white glow on the cobblestones. Heavy black clouds bordered the horizon, rolling dark and ominous, the silver radiance of Secunda dim beneath the black orb of Masser. Sheltered within the hood of her cloak, Eonwe moved through the streets as inconspicuously a lone wanderer in the depths of night possibly could, keeping to the shadows until she reached the tavern.

Crossing the threshold, she stepped into the warm invitation of flickering candles and smoky air, and saw the huddled forms of a few late patrons stooped heavily over their flagons of ale. A small cluster had gathered for a game of cards, the distinguishable clink of coins quick to draw her attention to where several tables had been drawn together. A small heap of glittering gold caught her eye through the densely-packed bodies; ordinary lads in holey tunics and patched trousers, they were big chaps all in desperate need of a shave and a scrub, they reeked of manual labour, wood shavings, and the decay of seawater and fish.

A slender barmaid with skin as white as milk came around the post and halted just short of colliding bodily into Eonwe. The wooden cups balanced on her tray winged off and hit the floor, though they were thankfully empty, collected in her rounds on the way to wash them. Her hair had fallen loose of its hasty knot low on her neck, spilling across her small shoulders, and her eyes sprang wide as her mouth opened to apologize. Unusual eyes, Eonwe noticed – a clear, bright blue broken by brown, as though someone had dripped ink into them.

“Forgive me for my clumsiness, milady! I didn’t see you there,” she apologized, righting the flagons and cups on her tray. “Could I offer you something to drink, perhaps? On the house, of course!”

“No, I’m quite alright,” Eonwe smiled, recalling the lonely days of her turn as a barmaid. The poor wisp of a girl looked barely put together, and she felt a rush of pity. “Here, turn around. Your hair’s come loose.”

Silky at first sight, the light brown strands were coarse and wiry to the touch, the ends split and as dry as straw. Eonwe dug out a spare leather cord from her pocket and fashioned the barmaid’s hair into a quick braid, twisting the end into a loop and securing it tightly. “There, no more trouble,” she announced, gingerly patting the small white shoulder. The protrusion of bone made her skin prickle.

“Thank you, milady. That was exceptionally kind of you to do for me,” the barmaid’s face was split into a beaming and genuine smile. Up close, the narrow lines of her face were more visible, and what had been mistaken for slenderness was gaunt thinness. _Poor thing barely has enough to feed herself with_ , Eonwe thought sadly.

“I’ve been in the same spot as you. I know what it’s like,” she ventured unexpectedly, feeling a strange kinship to the barmaid. “You take care of yourself… uh…”

“Natalia,” she said brightly. “But everyone calls me Nattie.”

“Nice meeting you. I’m Eonwe.”

A queer expression crossed Natalia’s face and Eonwe felt an abrupt surge of guardedness. Was there something peculiar about her name? Something uncertain lodged in her mind: Did Natalia know her?

She meant to ask, but a couple of patrons were in the way, pushing between them and blocking her from view, and Eonwe felt the post pressing against her back as she edged out of the way. When the patrons passed by, Natalia was already halfway across the tavern, and it was too late to say anymore.

 _Strange. Very strange_ , she thought as she squeezed past the table and its gambling patrons, and made for the cellar.

One of the tavern workers – the son of the owner, if Eonwe’s memory was sound – was coming up from the cellar. He was carrying a couple of crates of ale, the glass bottles clinking delicately as they rattled against each other. He nodded in greeting, bringing the ale to the counter, where she heard him admonishing a willowy blonde youth – no older than fourteen – for standing around gossiping instead of working.

Certain no one would notice her disappear down into the cellar, Eonwe slipped down the stairs and cautiously made her way into the stone-walled room; it was as dark as a witch’s cauldron with the exception of the lit lantern hanging by the door, and the gleam of green and amber-glass bottles glittered from the floor-to-ceiling shelves lining the walls. Twin massive copper cauldrons threw off great waves of heat, their contents boiling from the intensity of the wood-burning stoves beneath, the grates casting red light on the tile floor – resembling a gaping maw full of long black teeth.

Eonwe felt a cold draft and she stepped further into the darkness. The court mage ought to be here, unless she hadn’t yet arrived. Deciding to wait, she perched on the edge of a hollow barrel and watched the stove light ebb and flicker on the stone, letting her thoughts wander.

The first thought to broach her mind was Natalia’s queer reaction to hearing her name. Unless the barmaid knew her from somewhere, Eonwe didn’t recognize the undernourished girl at all, and she was fairly sure she’d never met another Natalia before.

 _Unless Natalia isn’t her real name_. It was worth considering the possibility. What bothered her was the fact someone knew her name and she didn’t know them.

And then there was Madeleine Frey, the Breton woman who was potentially Mercer Frey’s estranged sister. Eonwe knew there was nothing she could do except to find the brooch and wish her on her merry way back to Wayrest. Skyrim offered nothing to the remainder of the Frey family save headaches and grief.

It was curious, however. Eonwe recalled what Brynjolf had said at Dragonsreach:

_“Aye, he brought these from High Rock, when he was just a lad,” Brynjolf explained. “I suppose he thought he would grow into them at the time. He thought a lot of things, when he put his family and his wealth behind him.”_

_“Why would he do that?” Eonwe asked, genuinely curious. She definitely didn’t care much for Mercer but hearing that… it made her wonder what kind of life Mercer had come from. The mental image of a younger, wide-eyed, innocent Mercer Frey made her feel somewhat apathetic and solemn. The truth was, she couldn’t think of the man any different than the rigid and volatile arse she knew him as presently. Yet, she couldn’t help but entertain the thought: Why leave so much behind for a hundred times less?_

_“Mercer came from an esteemed family that supposedly derived from a group of bounty hunters, and they made a lot of coin in their short reign,” Brynjolf said. “A great-grandmother of his spent years hunting down the Gray Fox but no one knows the outcome. Mercer likes to think that she and the Gray Fox had an affair.”_

_“That’s quite the thought,” Eonwe commented._

_“Aye, but Mercer’s always admired the Gray Fox. He was the greatest thief who ever lived.”_

“But why would you leave it all behind?” Eonwe asked the listening shadows. “Or were you running from something?”

 _We’re always running from something_ , she lamented, scraping the toe of her boot across a crack in the stone tile. It resembled a spiderweb, or a maze of leafless tree branches, woven together into an indistinguishable pattern.

 _You are the Dragonborn, the most powerful figure of your age! What is there to run from?_ _You are the one they fear, and rightly so!_

Eonwe clenched her hands so tightly her nails bit into her palms. _I’ve been running all my life. It’s in my blood. It’s who I am._

Red eyes blinked in from the corner and Eonwe vaulted to her feet, every hair on her body standing on end, alarm sending a rush of adrenaline coursing through her veins. She instinctively reached for the dagger strapped to the back of her belt. A ribbon of black separated itself from the dark, slender and ominous. Eonwe felt the queer sensation of recognition smack her neatly between the eyes as the faint light of the fire beneath the cauldrons illuminating the pale face hidden under a midnight-blue hood.

“I didn’t realize you were here,” Eonwe spoke in a small voice, feeling immediately unprepared. Had the court mage been listening to her rambles?

“I am always where I need to be, and I know everything that’s necessary in my position,” Sybille brushed back her hood and smoothed an awry lock of hair. A ring adorned one white finger, a gathering of tiny garnets clustered around a polished black onyx, to resemble an eclipsing sun.

“I know you escaped Valenwood as a child,” the court mage stated plainly, leaning her hip against a crate – a picture of conversational ease. “Your father’s allegiance to the Empire was the reason for the attack. The Thalmor are thorough.”

“That’s hardly enough to make me squirm,” Eonwe snapped defensively. “I didn’t come here for a history lesson on my own life.”

Sybille narrowed her eyes slightly. “Would informing General Tullius of your whereabouts a few years ago be enough? I’m sure the Imperial City has more than enough empty cells in their prison for a fugitive.”

Eonwe stiffened in alarm. What was this, a trap? Sybille merely laughed.

“Never fear, young one. The world is ripe with people wanting to spill a little blood, yours especially. The glory of the Dragonborn’s death would be sung through the ages,” Sybille grinned, exposing several gleaming white fangs framed by her blood-red lips. “Anyone should hunger for such an honour, noble or bandit alike.”

“Why this, then?” Eonwe demanded. “What is this for?”

“To see if you have the spine for what is next to come. There is no one to help you, not even I can come to your aid. I would be expunged from the court, driven to the corners of the world, if they didn’t destroy me first. Many suspect my nature as a nightwalker, others believe me to be a witch. Some have even said I welcomed the vampire here to murder the young queen,” Sybille murmured. “And others believe I did it myself.

“I know how it is to be threatened from all angles, to have few in my corner, to be hunted from those I once called friends and family. I know loneliness. I know the fear of your own lover standing over your bed in the night with a stake raised to strike. Betrayal runs deep in the bones of mortals.”

“But we aren’t,” Eonwe said.

“Indeed.” Sybille drew closer and held out her hand. Something small glittered in her palm: A key.

“I cannot help you more than what words I offer tonight. Thane Bryling is dead and Falk has been wrongly arrested for her murder. I have done all I can but the truth is muddled by forces even I couldn’t hope to penetrate. I am threatened enough as it is.”

“Bryling’s dead?” Eonwe echoed, shocked. “When did this happen?”

“The letter arrived to you only hours after her corpse was found in her house. I made a decision to involve you in investigating her death and I hope I made the right one.”

“Why me?”

“Many say the greatest hero of our time fell in the fields of Sovngarde thwarting the blackest demon to grace our skies. Only a few know she lives,” Sybille pressed the key into Eonwe’s hand and closed it tightly. Her hands were as cold as ice, but her eyes were warm with belief. “Solitude needs that hero.”

“… Where do I begin?”

“If her corpse cannot offer answers, search her home and those closest to her. Someone ought to lead you to finding the truth.”

“And once I find out who did this? What then?”

Sybille drew her hood up and stepped away, the creak of floorboards above sending Eonwe’s heart lurching in her chest. Their time to speak was over.

“Sybille, wait,” Eonwe whispered, following the vampire’s shadow. Crimson eyes glowed back at her. “Who do you think did it? Who killed Bryling?”

Sybille cast a quick glance at the door, her expression aghast and torn with uncertainty. Someone was coming – all too soon, and so much left unanswered. Eonwe gave her a pleading look.

The court mage shook her head. “Someone’s near. Hide yourself. And remember,” she lunged out, one hand gripped hold of Eonwe’s arm so tightly her fingers left bruises. Her demonic eyes blazed in dark sockets, lending to her urgency. “ _Do not trust anyone!”_

In a cloud of bats, the court mage vanished out the door and up the stairs, and Eonwe flung herself into the corner farthest from the door as the tavern owner’s son stumbled in for another cask of mead.

She listened to him rustle around, grumbling under his breath and the shuffle of boots as he ascended the stair once more, clinking bottles in tow. She stayed a little longer, her breath quiet, imagining the grey-eyed thane lying dead in a pool of her own blood. Had someone who disagreed with her belief in the rebellion had her assassinated?

Eonwe sat up, peering around the piles of crates and casks, alone but for the shadows. Bryling’s home was at the other end of town, in the same direction of the Hall of the Dead. Her body would be there, being prepared for the funeral and her permanent entombment in the hallowed crypt. It would be wise to go there first and see what she could find; anything could be of importance and could lend aid to finding her killer all the sooner.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly NSFW...
> 
> Hi everyone! Regardless of my progress with this story (not very good) I'm going to release the next chapter. I've had it completed and ready for longer than necessary, so I think it's a good time to share some more of Eonwe's story. I'd like to thank those who have stuck with me for so long, and the great comments I've received on both works recently. It always brightens my day and gives me the itch to write when I come back. Among other things, I have been busy with some other projects; I've introduced myself to the fandoms of Overwatch and Detroit: Become Human (could two games be any further apart?) and I've been swinging back and forth with screenarchery on the Nexus. It's been a busy time and I've spent a little of it writing out rough drafts for future chapters and reorganizing the next, most immediate plans for this story. I intend to take a look at the chapter I'm working on, and edit the rough parts; I had to reshape the entire scene and those that follow to suit the later story, so it's been a little messy. Anyway, thank you again for stopping by and I appreciate your kudos, your comments, and any feedback. Love to you all.

It was easy enough to slip past the guards posted on watch outside the recently-deceased thane’s house. Dipping under the heavy curtain of darkness and through into the side garden, Eonwe unlocked the door with quick fingers and vanished within the building before she could be noticed.

Gliding through the empty halls, her footfalls almost silent, Eonwe recognized the forlorn sense of a house devoid of its owner. The feel of an accompanied space was replaced with a stark and bare ambience, hanging between breaths; it was difficult to think she wasn’t trespassing. Heading up the stairs, she located Bryling’s bedroom and pushed the door open on protesting hinges.

Immediately, the strong smell of spilled perfume permeated her nose. Its source could be located at the vanity by the window, left open carelessly and allowing the sweet fragrance to have dissipated some. Eonwe cast a rudimentary eye across the room, seeing no blood or signs of a fight. The bed was made, the blankets smoothed, everything in place and nothing disturbed to the naked eye. It was as though nothing had happened.

Except…

The glinting shard of glass caught her attention and she moved toward it, eyes locking onto the shattered remains of a glass vial. Crouching beside it, the wet stain had dried, save the small amber pool still resting in the unbroken base of the perfume bottle, a cluster of yellow flowers soaked through and wilted from their former beauty. Eonwe knew those flowers and their scent from only one place, far beyond any meadow or field in Skyrim. The mountain flowers bordered the Forgotten Vale and the places around it, blooming in rare pockets compared to their red, purple, and blue-coloured cousins.

Expensive and distinctive, they were highly sought after for their uses in alchemical compounds and herbal mixtures – and apparently perfumes for the wealthy and upper-class folk. Eonwe dabbed her fingertip in the fragrance and gingerly lifted it to her nose, struck by the familiarity of the scent. She hadn’t realized it, but she’d smelled it before, and recently…

“Lass?”

Jolting around, Eonwe found Brynjolf casually leaning against the closed door, his arms folded across his chest, his head cocked inquisitively to one side, and a small smirk upon his lips. Her heart was pounding in her chest, and she fixed him with a look of angry accusation.

“Gods, you scared me! Don’t sneak up on me like that!” Brow furrowing suspiciously, she added, “Why are you here?”

“I saw you leave the tavern,” he answered. “Karliah sent me after you.” He started to move towards her, crossing the room only a few paces before she held up a hand, indicating he stay where he was.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

The ruddy brow peaked. “Care to tell me why not?”

“No.” She returned to examining the vial, glancing from the vanity to the open window. A cool draft brushed her face, a waft of the fading perfume filling her nose as she inhaled. Brynjolf hadn’t left – in fact, he’d not moved. Instead, he was frowning broadly, eyes narrowing in annoyance at Eonwe’s resilience.

“Do I have to beg, lass?” he queried firmly.

“No, I just…” she smoothed back her hair and straightened, adjusting the edge of her cloak caught on her sword. “You shouldn’t be here. It’s dangerous.”

“For you… or for me?”

The wintery chill of his tone made her look up and meet his stare properly. _Obstinate scoundrel never knows when to stop, does he?_ she thought irritably.

“Fine. Bryling’s dead and I was asked to look into it.”

The other brow lifted in surprise. “When were you going to tell me this?”

“I was… getting around to it.”

“You told Karliah but not me?” he asked with a lifted brow.

“It’s not about that, alright? I’m supposed to keep this under wraps, anyway.”

“No, lass. I’m no fool. You don’t trust me.”

“Brynjolf, can we not do this right now?”

“No, we’re doing this now. I’m finished with being kept in the dark. Whatever you’re dealing with here – is it a threat to the Guild? Could it get back to us?”

“It won’t if you leave,” she said firmly.

“It’s my job to know what’s going on. I’m the Guild Master here.”

“Oh, so you’re finally giving a shot at being responsible?” Eonwe folded her arms across her chest. “It’s a little late, don’t you think? There’s not much left to protect, if you _hadn’t noticed_.”

Fury ignited in his eyes and he strode forward. “There’s you, damnit!”

That gave her a moment’s pause.

“I don’t need protecting, Brynjolf.”

“Oh, aye? I’ll just let you carry about here and land yourself in hot water. If something goes wrong because there’s no one here to watch your back, don’t come running home to me. I damn sure won’t offer help then.”

“Yeah, go. I don’t need you.”

“Well? Are you going to leave or-”

Brynjolf was suddenly lunging forward, pressing a hand over her mouth to silence her. Eonwe struggled, a whine of protest rising in the back of her throat, when there was a muffled noise outside the door. Footsteps.

 _Great. Just great._ Eonwe flashed Brynjolf a glare of accusation but he didn’t notice, instead herding her across the floor to the armoire and flinging the door open. She was promptly shoved inside, he cramming inside after her, and it went black.

It was suffocating tight, luxurious fur-lined garments and linen dresses smothering her. She wobbled, hands shooting out to balance herself, her footing uneven on the cluttered shoes and boots. Brynjolf snagged an arm around her waist to hold her steady, and a shiver across her skin left goosebumps in its wake.

“Quiet, lass,” he whispered in her ear. His breath was warm on her neck, and she closed her eyes tightly, focusing on slowing her pounding heart. _This is not the time, Jorgiis_. There’s barely enough room for the two of them.

The creak of the bedroom door drew her attention through the thin slats, where she saw someone garbed in a deep blue robe trimmed with fine gold thread enter cautiously. They moved with a feline grace, fingers not quite touching but skimming over objects, as though gathering the aura of every item in their strange examination. Eonwe watched them with a studious eye; they are male, tall and angular, someone she’s never seen before. What are they doing in Bryling’s house of all places, and so soon after her death? Would the murderer be so daft as to _return?_

She saw as the intruder came upon the shattered perfume bottle. They knelt beside it and a sound of annoyance – or disgust – escaped from between their teeth. Raising one bony-knuckled, long-fingered hand, a whorl of crackling grey magic was produced and engulfed the gleaming fragments. The floor was bare, not a shard of glass to be seen…

…as though nothing in the room had been disturbed. As though nothing had happened.

Then the intruder raised his head abruptly, looking towards the armoire. Eonwe saw his face – the chiseled, angular features, and tawny colouring of none other than an Altmer. She tensed in instinctive response, inert fear mixing with dread. Brynjolf reached for his dagger on his belt as the intruder approached slowly, head cocked in query. Had he heard them?

A sudden scuffle outside the door distracted the Altmer and he swiftly departed from the room. Eonwe exhaled in relief, but craned to listen at the new voices nearby.

“What are you doing here? Did I not tell you to wait outside?”

“You were taking too long,” said the newcomer. A woman.

“ _Again_ with the not listening!” the mage remarked distastefully. “If I tell you to stay, _you stay_. Is it so difficult to obey your superiors?”

“Superior my ass,” she sneered carelessly.

Flesh cracked across flesh. Eonwe winced internally, vividly picturing the red blossom spreading across a tender cheek.

“I’ve had enough of your childish nonsense! I had to clean up one of your messes – _again_ ,” the mage hissed. “If this happens one more time, you can say goodbye to being protected.”

“As if I care. I’m just in it for the gold.”

“Do you really think he’ll pay you after he finds out about this?” he exclaimed incredulously.

“You can’t threaten me, mage.” A hard footstep sounded with the woman’s reproach. “You don’t have a leg to stand on. I know all about your little meetings, all those war secrets you tried to bury. Erikur won’t be around forever to protect you.”

“I beg to differ. When we’re done here, we’ll have the entire city in our pocket. And you – you will be the scum beneath our boots once again. Once a lowlife, always a lowlife.”

A long pause reflected the invisible tense comfort between the two strangers, speaking volumes of the potent hatred sparking between them.

“…are you done?” she growled venomously.

The mage sighed. “There is no talking to you, is there?”

“Only if it means getting paid.”

“Woodland drivel, you are. I want Irnskar taken care of. I don’t need the fool weaseling out of our plans.”

“Yeah.”

“Do _not_ make a mess this time.”

The sound of rapid footfalls and the final click of a shutting door announced they were alone again. Eonwe glanced at Brynjolf’s dark silhouette in the tight space of the armoire. “This _is_ all Erikur’s doing,” she exclaimed.

“There’s nothing we can do until we have rock-solid evidence to prove him guilty,” Brynjolf pointed out; she didn’t have to see his expression to know he was serious. Quickly recognizing the sprout of leadership lingering under his tone, Eonwe shook her head firmly.

“We aren’t exactly in a position to be going to the authorities about criminals, if you hadn’t noticed,” she reminded him. “You’re a wanted man; you can be seen out and about.”

A thin shaft of moonlight hit a slat in the side of the armoire, striking his face, and she glimpsed the crook of his smile. “I can tell you’ve already thought of something, lass,” he said knowingly, giving her a sidelong glance.

“I was only wondering… how difficult would it be to convince Irnskar to talk?” she said aloud. “He was Bryling’s personal guard. He ought to know something.”

“Aye, well, hiding in here won’t get us any closer to dealing with Erikur.”

“Are they gone?” Eonwe shifted on the balls of her feet, wedging for a better foothold when she unbalanced herself trying to see out. Brynjolf eased the armoire door open and they listened carefully for a few moments. No sounds, nothing save the silence and their regular breathing.

“They’d have heard us by now,” Brynjolf said. “C’mon, we’ll go out through the window. It’ll be quicker.”

Abandoning the wardrobe, Eonwe inspected the spot where the perfume bottle had lain. Perfectly clean, only a faint trace of mana residue on the air. Very thorough of the mage…

“Who was he?” she whispered as Brynjolf ducked his head out the window, observing the streets and alleys. “Why did he hide it? Won’t someone notice it’s missing?”

“I don’t know, lass, but we’d best not stay any longer. I don’t intend to get us caught here.”

They slipped out the window, careful to leave it as it had been, and clambered down the side of the roof to the tiny side garden. Lowering himself over the edge, Brynjolf sent a cautionary glance down the alley beyond before reaching up, indicating to Eonwe to climb down. She swung her legs over the ledge and dropped into blank air; firm hands caught her securely around the waist, steadying her as she touched the wilted flowers underfoot. Highly aware of their sudden close proximity and his hands lingering a little longer than necessary on her hips, she bit the inside of her lip, hoping she wasn’t blushing; the warmth rising in her face was a horrible tell, and she caught the flash of white as he grinned. _The scoundrel still makes my knees turn to jelly. Get it together, Jorgiis._

Looking down, Eonwe noticed the stalks of lavender had been stepped upon, but by neither of them. “Look,” she said, pointing to them. Brynjolf didn’t seem vaguely interested, and Eonwe rolled her eyes at his obliviousness. “Whoever killed Bryling must’ve come this way,” she urged.

Brynjolf made a reasonably agreeable sound in the back of his throat and slid past her, casting a second glance at the lavender, before peering out into the street. Eonwe bounced from foot to foot, an eagerness springing to life in her chest. She’d not felt such a liveliness in… months.

 _So is the life of a thief, a constant adrenaline rush_ , she thought as she followed Brynjolf down the side of the street and into an inconsequential alley, keeping out of sight of any patrolling city guard or evening wanderers. Her eyes lifted, studying the familiar broad back and long russet hair, the ends brushing his wide shoulders. _Or maybe he’s making me feel this way_.

Honestly, it wasn’t an unwelcome feeling in the least.

Certain they were in the clear, Eonwe stepped forward so she was walking side by side with the thief. He seemed to startle a little, as though he’d forgotten she was there; perhaps his mind was elsewhere. There was a lot on his mind, after all, with the Guild in peril every second it hung to existence.

“Alright, so we find Irnskar and make him tell us what he knows,” she proposed conversationally. “Then what? We take him to Captain Aldis?”

“I’m sure the captain will love seeing me. He’ll have me in irons before you can say ‘thief’.” The cocksure grin was back. “No, we need more than that to go on. It won’t be enough.”

“Falk could testify. He didn’t kill Bryling. They were lovers.”

One ruddy brow peaked slightly. “Aye?”

“See? Even you didn’t know.”

“With the Dragonborn left with nothing to do, she started telling scandalous rumours about the upper-class citizens of the capital…” he intoned teasingly, jostling her shoulder as they rounded a street corner. Eonwe pushed against the contact, though the familiarity was a welcome relief. She’d missed… _this_.

“Actually, I saw them together,” she clarified boldly.

“As the palace’s steward and thane, I’d expect they see each other often enough, aye,” he said, not quite catching the meaning of her tone.

“No, I mean… ‘together’ together,” Eonwe kept her eyes forward, trying to hold back her smile. But how could she resist? “The armoire we hid in has seen a lot of… them.”

Brynjolf cleared his throat. “Ah. Is that so?”

“Probably best you heard it from me first,” she winked.

They walked in silence, the soft slap of their footsteps and the regular drumming of her heartbeat the only sounds. The moonlight lit up the cobblestones, a thin sheet of ice creeping along the edges. The first breath of winter could already be felt on the summer breeze; it wasn’t uncommon for Last Seed to see snowfall this far north, and Solitude was no exception.

She’d unconsciously begun walking faster to keep up with Brynjolf’s pace, and she noticed he had drifted closer to her side; simply extending his hand out would bring it in range of her arm. She passed her eyes over his face, seeing the relaxed lines had tightened to a serious, focused mask. “Something wrong?” she inquired. “If it’s about the-”

“We’re being followed. No-” he warned as she began to look over her shoulder. “Don’t look.”

“Where are they?” Eonwe asked, feeling a cold clamminess break out under her arms. _Did they see us leave Bryling’s house? How many? Are they armed?_ The questions whizzed through her head at a rapid-fire pace.

“About thirty paces behind. They’ve been following us for a few minutes without changing pace or direction,” he spoke softly, for her ears only.

“Do you recognize them?” she pressed.

“No.”

The night felt very empty and yet very full all at once.

Ahead, the windmill’s dark sails spun lazily in the night, great triangular fans pulled by the wind. Brynjolf was looking at it – more precisely, the archway underneath. There was a gated passage there. A convenient escape route.

“When we cross underneath, go through the gate,” Brynjolf murmured, voicing her thoughts. “I’ll be right behind you. Go straight to the end, and don’t look back.”

“If they follow us?” she whispered tensely, the itch to run already making her legs skip slightly. She forced herself to walk calmly, as though enjoying the serene moonlit walk in the wee hours of the day.

“Go to Brinewater Grotto – you’ll remember where it is? – and look for Gulum-Ei. He should be there. Take the route through the warehouse if it’s faster.”

“You want me to run.” A coldness entered her voice, the taste of frost on her tongue.

“If anything happens to me-”

“ _Nothing_ will,” she interrupted persistently, but he wasn’t listening.

“If _something_ happens, I want you to get out of Haafingar and go to Markarth. We have a contact there at the treasury house,” he ordered.

“Would you shut up for a second?” Eonwe hissed irritably. “Nothing is going to happen.”

He fell silent, giving her a sidelong glare. As the shadow of the archway passed over their heads, Eonwe veered through the gated passage. Brynjolf pulled the gate closed and, finding her waiting halfway to the stairwell, herded her forward until they reached a tiny stone alcove.

The moment they were alone, he whirled on her and erupted in anger. “I don’t give a damn if you aren’t going to listen to me. I’m trying to keep you alive the way I know-” He halted midsentence, teeth clicking as his mouth snapped shut. He was positively fuming. Eonwe’s eyes had grown large with astonishment at his outburst. She couldn’t summon a single word to counter him, because she didn’t know how.

The gate squealed on rusted hinges, setting the hair lifting along her arms, and Brynjolf gingerly pushed her against the wall behind him, becoming an immovable barrier in front of her. She wanted to protest but her lips were frozen together, her throat tight as she breathed through her nose. Together they waited, the seconds ticking by into minutes… until a word did brush across her mind and she whispered it into the air.

 _Laas_.

A pale red glow emitted through the stone, mere feet away from where they were standing. She reached up, lightly touching Brynjolf’s back, and she felt his muscles tense under the leather of his jacket. He could see it, too. His arm shifted, hand reaching to unsheathe his dagger, body coiling in preparation of a fight. The smell of leather, male perspiration, and wet stone filled her nose. Eonwe closed her eyes, nearly close enough to feel the _thud-thud_ of his heart in her head. A bird in a cage, vying to be free. But whose?

_Foolish are mortals. Lure it away. Hear the words within._

_“Zul Mey Gut,”_ she gasped out, the words wrenched from the depths of her mind. The echo of her voice could be heard elsewhere, an undistinguishable phrase in a taunting sneer, but clear and ringing nonetheless. The light red began rapidly heading back up the passageway, the footsteps loud as they rushed off, the squeak of the gate announcing their leave. Brynjolf looked down at Eonwe in unconcealed surprise.

“Clever trick,” he commended. “Where did you learn that one?”

“Has its uses,” she joked to break the tension. “There’s – uh – more where that came from.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“Are they gone?” Eonwe asked; the reddish glow of the _Shout_ had faded, but she was still anxious from the near encounter. A rippling coil of uneasiness yet hung at the edges, and she wasn’t able to shake it.

“Aye, unless they’re waiting for us to come out in the hope of an ambush.”

“Well, there’s two of us and one of them. Better not keep them waiting-”

“Easy, lass.” Brynjolf extended a hand, preventing her from stepping into the passageway. “I’d rather stay out of this one.”

“You stay, then. I can handle one idiot on my own,” Eonwe smirked, but he still wouldn’t budge. In fact, he looked slightly apprehensive about letting her go.

“I don’t think you _should_ ,” he clarified.

“Do you think I can’t take care of myself?” Eonwe demanded. Their splutter of an argument from before was still valid then. At least it was sooner rather than later.

“I don’t doubt your capabilities; your restraint, on the other hand, is a different matter entirely.”

 _He’s walking on thin enough ice as it is_.

“Hmph,” she snorted. “I’ll show you restraint.” Again, she tried to shove by, but he gripped her shoulder and put himself in front of her. _He does know I can knock him on his arse with a single word, right?_

“Gods, you’re a bloodthirsty little minx, aren’t you? You spent too much time with that coven of vampires.” Despite the friendly teasing Eonwe detected a real note of concern.

“Bryn, I don’t want to let some threat just walk away! Can’t you understand I’m trying to protect people here?” she proclaimed.

“Aye, I understand perfectly fine,” he said slowly, but he was outright lying, and they both knew it.

Eonwe hesitated. Why was he stopping her? What was his issue with not letting her go? She wracked her brain, trying to understand, but the fog of red behind her gaze hadn’t cleared… and the person following them was getting further and further away by the second.

 _It’s dangerous to leave unknown enemies unchecked_ , the voice whispered in her ears. She shook her head, trying to dislodge it.

 _It doesn’t matter, does it? Nothing happened, just like I said_.

_But they could bring harm it the future. You left your destiny for so long… how many perished in your weakness to follow through with your preordained path?_

They – the voice in her head – was right. She _had_ let matters get in the way of what had to be done, and the consequences had been grave. She recalled the mother and her son at the roadside, their home burnt to a crisp by a dragon. She thought of Helgen, the charred bodies twisted in eternal agony. Alduin, devouring the souls of the fallen…

“I have to go,” Eonwe whined, straining against Brynjolf’s grip. A drumbeat pounded in her head. He’d gone pale with alarm, and adjusted his hold on her arms, struggling to keep her thrumming body still.

_You disappoint me, as you disappointed your family with this weakness…_

Then her head was clear, and the whispers were gone, and she blinked up at Brynjolf as the invisible cord around her neck seemed to loosen. “I’m alright,” she said fuzzily. “Let go.”

“Are you sure, lass?” he released her, but he didn’t step out of her way. She didn’t feel the necessity to rush past him, and she pressed her hands to her face, sucking in a deep breath. _Calm, clear, silence. The silence is good. Safe_.

“Yes,” she murmured. “I… I don’t think I should use the _Thu’um_ anymore.”

“Did this happen before?”

“It happened twice. Serana helped me through it,” Eonwe rubbed her eyes, feeling the intense urge to cry. She suddenly felt so much like a shell of herself, the helpless child fleeing Valenwood, and she swallowed hard. “Gods, I have no idea what’s going on.”

“Neither do I,” he tried to lighten the mood with a smile, but she knew it wouldn’t be that easy. Still, the smile made it easier, and she laughed.

The mere sound of it cast the floodgates open and it all came pouring out, the words unspoken, the words needing to be said.

“You know, sometimes I think we’re on the same page; that we both understand where we’re coming from. I find I’m asking myself more and more, ‘What would he say?’ or ‘If I said this, or did that, what might he think?’

“But then other times,” she continued, holding fast to her courage. She needed him to hear it, to understand the messy state of disarray inside her troubled mind. “It’s so clear we really _aren’t._ We aren’t at all. Our heads are so far apart from the same thought, and our hearts could be in further directions.

“And then,” she sighed. “I keep asking myself the same question, over and over, repeating constantly. Then I realize – no, we aren’t on the same page. No, our hearts aren’t in the same place. We couldn’t be anymore different from one another.”

Brynjolf’s gaze was troubled, but thoughtful and focused. Eonwe felt a burst of regret, and she hedged on her feet, a stinging urge to take it all back biting at her tongue.

“But that’s where you’re wrong, lass,” he said softly. “We’re in this one together.”

Seeing the lopsided smile that she’d come to love so dearly filled the void in her chest, left empty for all those lonely months, and she realized she was wrong. They were on the same page, thinking the same thought. She was so utterly _wrong_.

It was _her_ heart that’d been missing – left in his hands in the graveyard of nightshade flowers – left with the thief who’d stolen it.

He leaned closer, distance between them coming to a few sparse inches, and she felt her heart jump high up in her throat. He was close enough for her to feel the coolness of his breath on her face, the warmth of his palm sliding up her neck. Her eyes slid shut, beginning to arch onto her toes, reaching for home…

“Always,” Brynjolf murmured, sliding a warm hand up her neck as he drew her in, pressing his lips to hers.

The kiss was tentative. She let her mouth open under the inviting pressure, tongue darting out to shyly flick against his. He cupped the back of her head, dragging his fingers through the loose russet-brown waves. The kiss deepened, her teeth scraping at his lip as her hands found the laces below his neck and tugged them slightly, fingers splaying on his chest. She could feel his pulse in her fingertips. Her hands dropped lower, wandering at their own accord, acting through instinct alone. Brynjolf’s hands left her hair, sliding down her back and over her rear, pressing her firmly against the hard swelling in the front of his trousers.

Eonwe left biting kisses across his jaw and down his neck, encouraged by the soft sounds breaking through between his tighter breaths. She vividly recalled the last time they’d touched in abandon, mindless with a want they’d never felt until those precious sparse moments among the nightshade flowers, lingering on the edge of something profound – something raw and volatile with passion.

The same feeling was there now, an aching deep in her belly, crying out with newfound need. Brynjolf’s eyes were dusky with the same intense longing she was feeling, defenseless and utterly unbound. He found a better grip and hoisted her up; she clamped her legs around his waist, lips finding his again, trying to press herself closer, to seal herself to him. She felt his palm slide up her back, grazing over the scars, warm and solid against her trembling spine. She didn’t want to let him go; she didn’t want _him_ to let go either.

“L-lass…”

A moan rose in her throat at the hoarse, needy rasp of his voice. He collapsed back against the wall, hips stuttering in jerky movements against the seam between her thighs. She ground down in response, the few layers of restraining leather and fabric all holding them back. “I… _I need you_ ,” she heard herself mumble incoherently.

“ _Eon_ -”

Hearing the metallic clinking of chainmail and heavy footfalls too late, torchlight illuminated the space, and Eonwe tore away from Brynjolf, staggering as her feet hit the ground, face matching the red sash of the city guard.

“Kynareth have mercy, you’re the second ones I’ve seen lollygagging out here in the dark!” he exclaimed irritably, raking them with an unabashed glare. She was only more aware to prevalent dampness between her thighs, and her mouth formed a thin line of guilt, unable to look the guard in the eye. “Off with you, or I’ll have you tossed in the dungeons if you know what’s good for you.”

Once he was gone, Eonwe peered at Brynjolf from the corner of her eye from below her lashes. There was a high colour in his cheeks, broadening substantially as he casually adjusted the front of his trousers. She was unable to contain her snicker, and he looked at her baldly. _This is on you_ , the pointed look accused very clearly.

“Don’t look at me like it’s _my_ fault. You started it,” she protested, unable to contain a giggle.

“Aye, but are you going to finish it, lass?” Brynjolf challenged softly, gently pushing her against the wall and leaning in to kiss her. There was a demand in the contact, a firm question. Eonwe met him fiercely, her answer bluntly delivered without the slightest disinclination.

“You’re damn right I am,” she said, dragging a hand across the straining leather, and felt a small bud of victory at his sharp intake of breath. He pressed his face into the crook of her neck, shuddering above her at her mere touch. Her eyes skipped past him to the end of the passage, where the glow of lantern announced impending company. “But not here.”

Brynjolf moaned in frustration, gathering her in his arms, his beard scratching her face. “C’mon, we have to go. We don’t want the guard to come back.”

“I don’t give a damn.”

“Yes, you do.” She wove her fingers with his, tugging until he relented with a sigh. “We’ve had enough trouble for one night.”


	22. Chapter 22

Sunlight radiated through the cracked windowpane, dust motes floating in the ray of golden light, glowing directly into Eonwe’s left eye. She scrunched up her face and buried her head under the mound of wool blankets, warm and comfortable, dozing into a mindless bliss once more. The bed was luxuriously soft, pressing comfortingly into all the right places, and she released a content sigh. Something rustled nearby and she lifted her head, peering through her eyelashes, yellow rays webbing lines across her vision. She reached out with one hand and smiled sleepily as her fingers linked with another’s; squeezing lightly, she blinked as her sight came into focus, attention drawn to the scaly texture spread across the back of the hand. The nails were curved and thick, scratching her palm when she jerked her hand away, and her eyes rose to see…

Eonwe shot upright in a blind panic, tumbling off her cot to the floor in a tangle of legs and blankets, the heavy thud reverberating through the floorboards. It felt as though her heart were trying to beat its way out of the front of her chest, but she barely noticed in her frantic effort to untangle herself from the claustrophobic swaddling blanket.

She emerged to find Brynjolf framed in the doorway, shirt in hand, staring at her with a startled expression. She looked down at her hands, seeing them trembling; she was soaked with sweat, her thin cotton tunic clinging uncomfortably to her skin, and she plucked at it delicately.

All the while, her mind worked to retain as much of the nightmare as possible, feeling its importance outweighed everything in those precious moments her subconscious clung to the space between oblivion and wakefulness. She could hear Brynjolf’s voice somewhere distant; his lips were moving and he was coming into the room, but she didn’t see him. Her mind’s eye was elsewhere, drawing together the dissipating details – white sheets illuminated in glowing golden light… what else, _what else?_

She pressed her fists into her eye sockets, as though she could cram the images back into her retinas, but they were already leaving, whisking away and leaving blank spots devoid of the answers she craved. She began to shake her head, fighting the constraints of her tiny human brain, reaching… _reaching_ …

Gone.

Eonwe struck her fist against the floor with a curse, her rage bubbling up hot and vengeful, before exploding into hysterics. She hit the floor again for good measure. The pain in her hand felt good. It felt real. Mortal. Like she really was alive, flesh and blood, able to bleed and break. Her fist crashed down again, a cry of frustration accompanying it, holding fast to the sting of broken skin.

Warm hands encircled her wrists and Brynjolf knelt in front of her; the moment he saw her shattered face, he drew her into his arms, pulling her close against him. She felt a streak of rebellion, wanting to protest, needing bitter reality – not soft coddling. But the stroke of his hand on her back made her crumple against him, shivering with terror and confusion. She was lost with no way up.

“Breathe,” he said in her ear, voice echoing almost too loudly, but she clung to it hard, using him as her anchor. She gulped in several deep breaths, warding off her hysteria, her fingers pressing furrows into the worn cotton of his shirt. It smelled like him, woodsy and a little overpowering, but it grounded her and helped her focus. She opened her mouth, tasting fabric and air. The tears hadn’t come yet, thankfully; she didn’t want to cry.

_She just wanted answers_.

“What’s wrong with me?” she mumbled against his shirt.

Brynjolf stroked a hand along her spine comfortingly. “It was only a nightmare, nothing to fret over.”

“You and I both know it’s not just nightmares. It’s never just been ‘only nightmares’,” she argued, but exhaustion swept over her, and didn’t have the heart to fight about it.

Standing, he gathered her bodily into his arms and laid her back onto her cot, arranging the blanket’s tangles. She wanted to push his hands away, to protest he was making her feel like a child; at the same time, she couldn’t help but see a reflection of her father in him. Two men she loved dearly, one of whom she’d lost and the other already once. 

“Go back to sleep, lass. I won’t be far if you need me,” he promised. After a brief pause, he leaned down and kissed her lightly – once on the forehead, and much more softly on the lips. She arched into it, hand grasping for his sleeve, wanting him to stay, but he was pulling away with a crooked little smile. It didn’t hide the concern in his eyes; she pretended not to notice.

“Tease,” Eonwe grumbled, rolling onto her side and stuffing the pillow into a ball under her head. She listened to his footfalls until it was silent, and she closed her eyes, wanting to sleep dreamlessly.

∞

She woke with a parched throat and rose from her cot, groggy with sleep, in search of water.

Preoccupied with rubbing the bleariness of sleep from her eyes, she wandered into the common room and headed for the small ceramic jug on the counter of the makeshift bar, fumbling for a cup to pour it into. It was nearly pitch black, except for a single candle flickering on one of the corner tables.

“It’s about time someone came along. I’ve been waiting for nearly an hour,” a sly, seductive croon lifted the hairs on the back of her neck, and Eonwe whirled around, knocking the jug to the floor, shattering wetly around her feet. The _Thu’um_ rushed up her throat in reaction to her alarm, staring into the gloom. The lone flame moved and it grew brighter as the wicks of a candelabra were lit, the amber glow revealing scarlet-and-black leather. A wicked-sharp blade sat alone in the center of the table, its edge black and gleaming like a venomous fang.

Eonwe stiffened at the sight of the Dark Brotherhood assassin.

She – it wasn’t difficult to see they were female through the thin layer of leather – was a perfect picture of content, her feet crossed at the ankle and resting on the edge of the table, her arms folded across her stomach. Her face was masked, but the wet shine of her eyes blinked, corneas reflecting the candlelight.

“Wh-who are you?”

“Astrid. And _you_ must be the one everyone speaks of so highly.”

“E-excuse me?”

“Our line of work requires we know _everything_ before we take on a contract. The personal information is useless, but if it can make an assassination pay even grander than the usual fare…” the assassin shrugged one shoulder casually. “So, you have no need to pretend you’re someone else, Eonwe. I knew who was here the moment I left my sanctuary.

“Come, sit with me away from the glass before you hurt yourself,” she beckoned with a wave of her hand. “I’m here on business between the Dark Brotherhood and the Thieves Guild, nothing more.”

Eonwe stepped out of the broken glass, her steps cautious; she was halfway to the table when footsteps sounded in the hall. Brynjolf caught sight of Eonwe standing in the middle of the room. “I heard a crash. What happen-”

“We have company,” Eonwe interrupted, and Brynjolf glanced at where Astrid was reclining. Eonwe didn’t miss the fleeting panic cross his face, and she hurriedly recalled Delvin had been part of the Brotherhood. Was this to do with him?

“Ah, Brynjolf,” Astrid purred sweetly, lowering her mask and pushing back her hood, an abundance of thick blonde hair tumbling down her shoulder. “It took you long enough to arrive. I was just talking to your old protégé here, weren’t we, sweet thing?” She smiled, running her gloved fingers through her hair.

“Why are you here?” Brynjolf asked calmly; he was far from calm, judging by the raised vein at his temple.

“Such disgraceful manners!” Astrid hadn’t broken her gaze from Eonwe’s, and it was becoming unsettling. “Is he always so… brutish? I understand the Thieves Guild has fallen on hard times, but at least us women have the decency to exchange salutations. Isn’t that right, Eonwe?”

“Leave her out of this,” Brynjolf snapped. “I won’t ask a second time, Astrid: Why are you here?”

“Rude _and_ persistent, isn’t he?” she smirked. Eonwe wanted to look away from the assassin but she didn’t have the nerve. Despite her intention to make herself the most unobvious threat in the room, she exuded danger. A highly skilled assassin, a mistress of death, she could easily end one of them between two heartbeats with a flick of her leather-dressed wrist.

This was why Eonwe couldn’t look away.

It was also why Astrid has chosen to focus on her, rather than Brynjolf. He was bigger, his movements heavier, slower than the lightweight archer pulsing with mystic power beneath her skin. Astrid knew Brynjolf was nothing – _nothing_ \- compared to the grander danger Eonwe posed. Within mere minutes of meeting and sharing a few exchanges, they had learned more about each other than she even knew of Brynjolf – through body language alone – and yet there was so much left unknown.

“But,” Astrid continued. “I never did grow fond of his charms. Few and far between, as they are.” She finally switched her attention to the man she’d casually insulted in a few words. “I’m here to have my favourite old friend appraise a little trinket that’s come into my possession. Where is he?” She tilted her head to one side inquiringly, like a salivating wolf listening for its prey. A cold thrill rushed up Eonwe’s spine.

“What are you needing appraised?” Brynjolf asked, gingerly evading answering her query.

Astrid drummed her fingers on the edge of the table, her only sign of growing impatience, and reached under the snug collar at her throat.  She withdrew an amulet on a gold chain from around her neck and held it out. The amethyst seemed to glow from within, shimmering in the gilded diamond. “Do you know what this is? I doubt you’ve seen one up close.”

Brynjolf went rigid. “Where on Nirn did you get one of those?” he demanded angrily, not taking the proffered amulet from the assassin. Eonwe looked between him and the lightly swinging pendant, dumbfounded. It had to be important to draw _that_ reaction from the thief.

“I’m certain you’ve already presumed I murdered the wearer, but I must disappoint you in saying I wasn’t the one responsible,” Astrid curled her palm around the amulet briefly, then laid it gently on the table beside the dagger. The blade seemed to ebb with a red pulsating heartbeat.

“Bryn, what is it?” Eonwe asked softly. “It’s not just an ordinary amulet, is it?”

“Mmm, a perceptive one. Nice to see you sought out a reasonable amount of intelligence in the lasses you pluck off the streets,” Astrid grinned wolfishly. “Why don’t you tell her, _Bryn?_ ”

At first, Eonwe didn’t think he would answer. His throat bulged slightly as he swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing under the dusted layer of coarse ginger hairs, resentment and ire burning in his dark green glare. “It belongs – _belonged_ – to a member of the Elder Council.  The Emperor’s closest advisors are given one as a badge of office,” he said hoarsely.

“And tell her its worth.”

“It’s blood money!” Brynjolf snarled, startling Eonwe with his anger.

“ _Tell her_ ,” Astrid ordered.

Eonwe looked Brynjolf in the eye, even though he wouldn’t. He was staring at the amulet. An amulet of the Elder Council, from the Imperial City. Eonwe’s head whirled. Why did Astrid want one appraised? It was clearly valuable – very valuable if she needed the Thieves Guild to see it – but it wasn’t only its worth she cared about. It was the amulet itself that represented an importance Eonwe couldn’t lay her finger on, or why Brynjolf was so riled up about it.

“What is it worth?” Eonwe asked blankly.

He didn’t shift his glare a fraction in answering, his words coming uneasily. “…it could be sold on the black market for up to a million septims a piece. In the right hands… twice over.”

“You’re serious?”

“It’s a rare and highly sought after valuable in the trader’s guild,” he confirmed with a nod, then gestured to the pendant in question. “Who did the dirty work for you?”

“As you know, my contacts are confidential,” Astrid brushed off with a flutter of fingers. “Until recently, our own guild was doing no better than yours. This here is the promise to the biggest mark the Dark Brotherhood has seen in decades, if not centuries. If you won’t appraise it, you’ll see nothing of its value.”

He shook his head. “I want no part in your little murder games.”

“The Thieves Guild can’t afford to turn down my generosity,” Astrid swung her feet down from the table and rose in one fluid motion, amulet and dagger in hand. Brynjolf moved forward and snagged Eonwe’s arm, putting himself between her and assassin. “This is your last chance to pull yourself out of the rut you’ve fallen into: Do you accept my offer?” Astrid asked.

“We live by a code,” he refused loud and clear.

Astrid _tsked_ in disappointment, swinging the amulet around her fingers and tucking it into her pocket. “Were you always so stubborn? You’re a fool; half the man your father was.”

“All for the better,” he murmured, hands curling into fists. A thousand questions flew through Eonwe’s head. As far as she could recall, he’d never mentioned a thing about his family.

Astrid, clearly done with them, delicately stepped around the table with the intention to leave. She was nearly at the pull-release gate when she paused, glancing back. “Where is Delvin? I’d like to catch up with him sometime over drinks – and avoid wasting my time with obstinate men the likes of you.”

Brynjolf said nothing.

Eonwe moved around him, ignoring his soft warning behind her, and met the assassin’s gaze head on. “He’s dead.”

Astrid’s face didn’t change, save the crinkling around her eyes as she smiled. “A coward, isn’t he? It takes his protégé to do what he cannot,” she laughed, the frosts of death on the melodic sound. “I already knew, sweet thing. I told you before: I knew who was here, and who wasn’t. It’s a dangerous game to lie to the Dark Brotherhood.”

With a wave of blonde hair rippling down her back, the leader of the Dark Brotherhood left, her footsteps no louder than smoke rolling across the ground.

_Where assassins go, trouble surely follows_.

∞

Swapping out the tunic she’d slept in for a linen shirt and leather leggings, Eonwe twisted her hair into a knot, tucking a shorter strand behind one ear as she methodically went over the different thoughts circling around her head. Lacing up her boots and donning a hooded wool cape, she contemplated whether or not she should arm herself with more than a dagger. She picked up Auriel’s Bow, stroking the gleaming white with gentle fingers, and decided to leave it behind, and went to let Brynjolf know she was headed out.

“Castle Dour?” he repeated in bafflement.

“I want to see Falk Firebeard and hear his side of things,” she answered, adjusting the fit of her boot, where her dagger was tucked along the inner lining. “I should speak to Irnskar as well.”

“Will you be fine on your own?”

“Yes. You’re not meant to be involved anyway,” Eonwe smiled, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his cheek, over the raised scar under the sprouting stubble. “Hmm, you need a shave. You’re all…. prickly.” He dragged a hand over his jaw with a frown.

“I thought you liked it.”

“I like this part,” she traced the thicker hairs framing his mouth and chin. His eyes closed when she brushed her fingers across his lower lip, and she bit back a smile when his head bobbed forward slightly, mouth parting. “I like this better,” she added, quieter.

Brynjolf caught her teasing hand, enfolding it within his own, and pressed a kiss to the inside of her palm. A nervous flutter deep in her belly made the corners of her mouth turn up involuntarily, a prominent flush chasing the freckles across the bridge of her nose.

“Aye, you’ve always known how to burrow under my skin,” Brynjolf murmured hoarsely. Warmth pooled in the depths of her thighs at the low timbre of his voice, his accent pronounced, and she felt the bold urge to toss aside reason and pursue her feelings. _Is this what a visit from the Dark Brotherhood instigates?_

She felt a spark of surprise at the stroke of his tongue tracing down her palm and across her wrist, the barest edge of his teeth grazing the first layer of skin. He tugged her in closer, winding her hair between his fingers and gently easing her head back, baring her neck, and she shivered at his warm breath chasing down the collar of her tunic. Warm wetness caressed the sharp ridge of her collarbone and into the hollow of her throat. Eonwe moaned at the harsh sucking bite applied to the side of her neck, and she wound her fingers in his hair, longing for his mouth. Calloused hands slipped beneath the hem of her shirt. _Please… oh, Gods, please._

She didn’t realize she’d spoken aloud until Brynjolf lifted her onto the counter’s wooden surface, and his fingers loosened the laces of her trousers in a few practiced tugs. He hesitated briefly, eyes flashing up to find hers fevered with raw need, and she nodded breathlessly – sheer wanton desire casting aside any obtainable doubt or second thought for sating her body’s primal, frantic curiosity.

Eonwe bucked in surprise at the feel of his calloused, blunt fingers sliding past wiry curls and into the narrow valley between her thighs. “ _Ahhh_ …” she gasped, but words were caught in her throat. She forced her legs wider in clear invitation, the subtle action greedy in her mind, but frankly, she couldn’t care less at the moment.

She cared even less when he pressed a finger into her, ever so slowly, one knuckle after the other, and she bit her lip hard enough to break the tender skin.

It wasn’t before much longer when her head fell back, lungs dragging in air, and her muscles tensed. A wave of saccharine pleasure rushed over her, dousing her focus, and she would have toppled off the back of the counter if not for Brynjolf’s arm wrapped snugly around her waist. Her eyes focused on the blur in front of her, and she was presented the sight of a man at the very end of his control, pupils blown into jade-edged moons, a stark and lupine hunger written across his profile.

A scuffling on the stairs had them pulling apart, heads snapping to see Vex appear in the doorframe, a patchy shawl wrapped around her narrow shoulders. She was barely able to keep herself upright, but where her body lacked strength, her topaz eyes were as sharp as ever. The fair Imperial took one look at Eonwe and Brynjolf, and a knowing smirk pulled her mouth wide, transforming her sagging features at once into a sneering feline.

“Sorry to interrupt, lovebirds,” she drawled, gingerly stepping over the broken ceramic jug and taking a loaf of slightly stale bread from the counter. “I’ll leave before my appetite is tarnished.”

“How are you feeling, Vex?” Eonwe inquired politely, sliding off the counter. Her knees wobbled, and she sought a secure hold as nonchalantly as possible. Much to her chagrin, her cheeks reddened as the light-coloured stare slanted with humor, taking in the unlaced trousers and swollen mouth.

“I’m steadier on my pins than you are,” Vex winked roguishly and hobbled away, somehow managing a jaunty air, humming low in her throat as she climbed back up the stairs to the sanctuary of her room with the bread in hand. Eonwe watched her go, face hot with embarrassment, and jumped slightly as an arm weaved around her waist and turned her so she was facing Brynjolf. He bent, kissing her softly before reluctantly letting her go.

“I’ll be here when you come back,” he promised.

“I hope so,” she responded with a touch of coy, letting the teasing sway of her hips as she walked away be the last thing he saw.

∞

A light breeze ruffled Eonwe’s hair as she passed through the city market. It was a beautiful day after the previous night’s rain, the sun warming the damp air, the last taste of summertime holding fast and unwilling to go too soon. She dreaded to think of what winter would bring; it had been difficult living as a thief in the past, even when they’d had contacts and a foot to stand on. Now, without even the slightest of support, winter would surely be their end – unless something was done.

Karliah had voiced her opinion on moving to another city, Markarth in particular. It was the second-wealthiest city in the province, closely followed by Whiterun. With more than half of the establishments owned and operated by Clan Silver-Blood’s stony grip, they had a chance at earning their patronage. Winning them over was a different matter entirely, and the Guild lacked the resources – or the stability – to contend with a potential rival. There was also the enormous chance the Silver-Bloods wouldn’t even consider affiliation with a guild of thieves, and prefer to have them labouring away their years mining silver.

Brynjolf was severely doubtful, preferring Windhelm and the security of the Grey Quarter instead. Shipments off the sea would be a safer venture whilst still valuable, with their ties – if presently feeble – to the Blackblood Marauders. The pirates known as the Blood Horkers had a tendency to operate on the eastern side of the provincial waters, meaning they would either have to change their associations, or find a compromise in retaining their relationship with the Marauders; losing their sole fence in the business, Gulum-Ei, would be a difficult blow to take – something not everyone was committed to.

“Change is imminent if we intend to survive,” Karliah had argued. “But the Thieves Guild is not a seafaring band of pirates. We rely on our influence through our partnerships and within the cities. How will any of that be accomplished if we’re hiding in Windhelm?”

Admittedly, Eonwe wasn’t pleased with the idea of moving to Markarth. The last time she’d been in the City of Stone was when she was fleeing from her living entombment in Cidhna Mine – an eight-month long duration in what was truthfully – and without doubt – the most secure prison in all of Skyrim. If not for the gas explosion opening an escape route in the mines through an old Dwemer ruin, there was a chance she could still be trapped there; she might have befallen a similar fate to Eltrys, the young father who’d perished in his fruitless effort to end the corruption in the city by killing Madanach – the King in Rags.

Eonwe didn’t want to go back, but her willingness to set aside her own desires for her friends had left her silent on the matter, unable to truly voice her opinion. If Markarth served a purpose, if it offered a chance for their survival as a guild, then how could she possibly refuse them that?

She could live with a little discomfort; their deaths occurring because of her was something she couldn’t bear to contemplate allowing to happen.

Eonwe was shaken from her thoughts by a lady trying to gain her attention. She recognized them as Evette San, the winemaker. A small part of her shrank from the idea of another shipment needing delivered, but she plastered on a smile to greet her.

“Beautiful day?” she said pleasantly. Evette nodded enthusiastically.

“Yes, it is. And even more so, now that I got to see you,” Evette beamed. “I’ve been wanting to thank you again for your generosity in getting those spices for me.”

“It was no trouble, I assure you-” Eonwe began, privately hoping the conversation would end there.

“If you ever need anything, just ask – within reason, of course.”

“Actually, now that you mention it, I’m looking for Irnskar Ironhand. Have you seen him?” Eonwe inquired.

“Funny you should ask,” Evette said. “My father – that’ll be Octieve – is to be meeting Irnskar about a debt he owes. If you go now, you should be able to catch them at the tavern. That’s where he said he was going.”

“Right, thanks.”

“And if you see my father, tell him there’s work to be done, and I can’t manage it all on my own!” she called as Eonwe headed off. “He might be old and retired, but that doesn’t mean he can waste our hard-earned coin on more drink!”

∞

The Winking Skeever was at the height of its patronage when Eonwe pushed open the door and entered the dark, smoky atmosphere, where the smell of fresh-baked loaves and the headiness of mead swelled bountiful in the air. The tables were packed with travellers, merchants, mercenaries, and sailors from the docks, playing games of cards or dice; one spirited group was engaging in a merry rendition of a song Eonwe wasn’t familiar with, one of whom was a fiddler, accompanied by the bard Lisette with her drum. Their joy was infectious, drawing others to join in at the chorus, while a few dragged tables aside to make room for dancing.

“Forgive the noise, it isn’t usually like this!” Corpulus Vinius had to raise his voice to be heard when Eonwe went to the counter to ask about Irnskar’s whereabouts. “He’s rented a room upstairs.” He pointed to the overhanging bannister, and Eonwe nodded her gratitude, making her way to the staircase leading up. She skirted the tables, keeping along the edges of the room, though her eyes wandered to the whirling homespun and carefree smiles.

Is this what Alduin would have destroyed in his conquest to enslave humanity? It wasn’t that Eonwe couldn’t imagine a world without songs and laughter that frightened her; it was that she’d almost allowed her own fear and self-doubt to get in the way of ending the tyrannical dragon. She didn’t like to think of herself as the legendary hero who’d saved the world – even though she was – but for one instant, one momentary instant as she watched the singing come to a close and begin anew, she could almost accept it.

_You saved these small, insignificant mortals_ , the voice whispered in her ear.

_I did. I wouldn’t change it for the world_ , Eonwe responded firmly.

_They should bow down before you, regard you as the heroine you rightly are._

_I’m just one of them who made a difference. I don’t ask anything of them_ , Eonwe protested. An ugly curl of emotion twisted through her stomach. _Why do you keep fighting me on this?_

_I am not blind to what your eyes cannot see clearly. Look, child! There is danger behind every innocent face. It is your place to eradicate those threats and ensure the safety of your domain._

_You can’t assume someone is a threat before they really are,_ she retaliated. _It’s unfair._

_If only you knew the unfairness of the matter at hand…_

The churning tendril vaporized nearly as soon as it had been felt, and Eonwe dragged in a lungful of air, not realizing she’d been holding her breath. A cold sweat had broken across the skin of her back. The voice still echoed in her ears, ominous and unfriendly, and entirely sincere in its bitter honesty. _If only you knew…_

What didn’t she know?

Eonwe was halfway up the stairs when the wiry build of a greyed, elderly man nearly slammed into her. She jerked back, falling onto the defense, still shaken by her conversation with… _whoever_ they were. The man bent to pick up the coin purse he’d dropped, muttering under his breath. Eonwe caught Irnskar’s name.

“Are you Octieve San?”

“What do you want?” he demanded aggravatedly.

“Is Irnskar here?” Eonwe asked. “Evette said you were meeting him.”

“The fool could have bothered to show,” she snapped gruffly. “I have the coin right here for him, as promised, but if he doesn’t want it, I think I’ll just spend it.”

“Why don’t you leave it with me?” she offered a smile she hoped looked friendly. “I’m supposed to be seeing him.”

“Leave it with you? What for?”

Friendliness be damned. Her mind went blank, not wanting to let on about her secret involvement in hunting down Bryling’s killer, and said somewhat coldly, “… that’s not any of your business.”

Octieve’s eyebrows arched high on his forehead. “Oh, I see,” he said with a knowing tone, and handed Eonwe the coin purse. “Payment up front, then? It’s Irnskar’s, after all. Here, take it.”

“Err… I didn’t mean I’m seeing him like that-”

“No, no. You don’t have to explain it to an old man. I’ve lived long enough to know not everyone has the best opportunity at choosing their life’s work. Trust me,” he laughed thinly. He sounded as awkward as Eonwe felt. “Let me get out of your way.”

Octieve practically bolted down the rest of the stairs, shoes clattering on the bottom step, and Eonwe rolled her eyes, pocketing the coin purse and crossing the upstairs balcony to investigate the rooms for rent. All of the doors were unlocked, and no one lingered inside, except for one. She knocked lightly and, when there was no answer, rapped her knuckles off the wood a bit harder.

“Irnskar? Are you in there?”

No answer.

_Time for a new tactic_.

“Irnskar, I’m here to talk. The city guard is on their way to arrest you for Bryling’s-”

There was a loud scuffle, the sound of a wooden object falling over, and Eonwe gasped as the door flung open with a whoosh of air. A massive frame filled the doorway, dressed in layers of wool and linen, and he was unshaven and haggard. A large pack sat at the foot of his bed, a layered cloak bundled beside it; a chair had fallen over, the loud noise from before the door had opened. Dark circles burrowed beneath the desperate gleam of his eyes, and he was heaving for breath. Eonwe had seen those eyes before in starved, scared animals. The wolf at the riverside surfaced in her mind, and she shook the memory away firmly.

“Easy now,” she heard herself murmur involuntarily.

“Who are you? How long do I have?” Irnskar demanded hoarsely.

“Listen,” she began, raising her empty hands, palms out to show she had nothing concealed in them. “I’m here to talk, that’s all.”

“There isn’t time. The guard-”

“They aren’t coming for you. I lied,” Eonwe admitted, then gestured to his travel pack. “But they’ll suspect you if you run. The ships will be searched before anyone is permitted leave of the city, and your absence will surely be noticed. You know that, right?”

If there was anything Eonwe knew, it was that he looked ready to disregard every word she’d just said and make his escape anyway, regardless of the consequences. She planted her feet, prepared to hold her ground, and knew she had to knock sense into the man before someone did something they’d regret. “Bryling is dead. You were her guard, and now you’re planning to leave the city. Did you kill her?”

Irnskar jerked as though something had stung him. “No. I didn’t kill Bryling.”

“Then tell me the truth. What happened?” Eonwe persisted. “Why is she dead?”

“I… I cannot say, or they’ll have me killed,” he fretted. “I must leave Solitude.”

“You mean Erikur, right? He’ll have you killed?”

Irnskar blinked in surprise. “How…?”

“What are you hiding, Irnskar?” she pressed on. “Tell me.”

Irnskar glanced past Eonwe, ensuring they were alone, then stepped back, gesturing for her to come into the room. Determined to show no fear of possibly being alone with a murderer, she straightened her spine and entered, ignoring the dull thump of the door closing behind her. Irnskar moved around her, picking up the chair, and he himself sat on the edge of his bed. Eonwe preferred to stand, and crossed her arms over her chest. “Alright, are you ready to explain what’s going on?”

“The letters,” Irnskar began, shoulders slumping as if a great weight receded from them; the freedom to speak was often as such. “Erikur needed a distraction. He made me write letters professing my love to Bryling, and for them to be discovered by Falk.”

“You loved her?”

“No,” Irnskar stated firmly, eyes hardening. There was truth there. “I was sworn to guard her with my life. She was my charge, my friend. I loved her but not as Falk did. Her safety was my sole job, and I failed. The letters are all a lie.”

“You betrayed her.”

“I took the letters to Falk, to warn him, on the night before she was murdered,” he looked at the ground, distant as the memory became present. “Melaran, Erikur’s wizard, was waiting for me.”

∞

_Falk paged through the letters one by one, slowly as he read them, absorbing every word written in the blunt, heavy hand of Bryling’s guardian. His frown deepened as he skimmed over the intimate details, too afraid for Irnskar’s sake to linger for too long on any word. The iron-clad man across from him wound his hands together, eyes boring into the low-burning fireplace, expression unreadable. Falk finished reading and set the letters aside, gingerly, and took a cup from the mantle to pour a drink. The liquid burned his gullet, but it chased away the bitter tang in the back of his throat._

_“Erikur directed you to write these letters to Bryling?” Falk inquired plainly._

_“That’s right,” Irnskar responded quietly. Neither could meet each other’s eyes._

_“What do you know of his plans?”_

_“Very little, but his intent to claim power is clear enough. We all know he hungered after Elisif’s position – and before her – Torygg’s, for years.”_

_“It would be dangerous to have a White-Crown on the throne. The family was nothing but greedy vultures. Erikur and Gisli are all who remain, but apparently for the worse,” Falk finished his drink and set the cup down. “And with the direction the war’s taken…”_

_“Erikur as a possible candidate for High King is a dangerous fate for Solitude – and for Skyrim.”_

_“With Bryling out of his way, Erikur would be the sole power in the court. With his wealth and influence alone, he could have the city under his thumb by simply buying his way in. The only obstacle would be you, Falk,” Irnskar added._

_“I would not be surprised if he has plans to do away with me,” Falk admitted hollowly. He glanced at the letters and sighed. “Irnskar, I commend your courage for bringing this to me. I entrust Bryling’s safety to you.”_

_The streets were dense with a heavy fog, rolling in from off the water and chilling the old stones of the city. Irnskar walked quickly in long strides, shaking off the cold as he headed for home. He’d not left Bryling long, and had promised her he would return as soon as he’d finished his errand._

_“This isn’t about Octieve, is it?” she’d laughed, wrapped up in her shawl before the fire, her hair loose around her narrow, white face. “Give the poor old thing a break. He probably spent all of his coin on ale.”_

_Irnskar was disappointed in himself. He’d let Erikur get into his head, made him believe he would reveal Falk and Bryling’s affair, expose them while the war raged on and leave only the pompous arse to profit from their misery. They would be separated for their fraternizing, and Bryling would be stripped of her title and deported from the city. She would be blacklisted as a traitor, a Stormcloak spy, another of Ulfric’s bitches. Falk would be terminated from his position as steward – a position he was barely clinging to with the weight of Solitude testing his shoulders and having to make judgement calls without creating scandal – if his relationship with Bryling wouldn’t be enough to tarnish his reputation._

_The last traitor had been Roggvir, the guard who’d allowed Ulfric to leave the city after Torygg’s death, and his headless corpse resided in the Hall of the Dead. It was so much worse, Irnskar realized. What was a ruined status compared to death? His secret was keeping Falk and Bryling alive._

_As Bryling’s home came into view, Irnskar stiffened his shoulders and made peace with his decision. He would tell her. Tomorrow he would bring her to Falk and show her the letters, and explain everything he knew about Erikur. He would secure a pair of horses before dawn, have them leave the city before early light, and then he would meet Captain Aldis and reveal Erikur for the treacherous monster he was._

_Irnskar didn’t hear the footsteps until too late. Reflexes as smooth as an oiled blade drawn from its sheathe, he pivoted and came face to face with the midnight-blue hood of a mage. The long angular profile of a high elf peered out from beneath the brim, mocking and bright with cruel intent. “I know what you’ve done, treacherous oaf,” Melaran hissed, magic crackling between his fingers._

_“The man you serve is a monster after his own profit,” Irnskar retaliated. “Someone needs to stop him before people are hurt by his arrogance.”_

_“And you believe you’ll be the one to do it? Oh, I commend you, great hero,” Melaran laughed darkly. “It’s far too late for that, Nord. Solitude will be ours, and soon, all of Skyrim.”_

_Irnskar marked the tender points of throat and groin, and adjusting his grip on his blade’s hilt. “The Dominion will never take her,” he growled, and lunged for the elf mage._

_A cloud of magic swarmed around his face, dragging at his consciousness, and the cobblestones rushed up to meet him as his sword clattered to the ground._

∞

Eonwe braced her arms along the back of the chair, a thoughtful frown creasing her brow. “Alright, if I retrieve the letters for you, you’ll speak to Captain Aldis?”

“Aye, it would probably be best.” He began to rise, but Eonwe straightened and shook her head.

“No, you stay here and wait for me to return. If I know where you are, this will all be dealt with faster,” she said, heading for the door. She glanced back, offering a small smile of encouragement. “Thank you for telling me. It’s never easy to tell the truth.”

“I only hope I made the right decision in trusting you,” Irnskar said blankly, gazing out the small window looking out at the street and the shops opposite.

“I’ll tell the innkeeper you went out. Don’t let anyone know you’re here,” Eonwe warned, cracking open the door and peering out. No one was hanging about – good. “One hour.”

“One hour,” he repeated, and Eonwe slipped out into the hall, pulling the door shut firmly behind her. She heard the lock click on the other side, and hoped it would be enough to protect him if Melaran or anyone else came looking for him.

Crossing the balcony, Eonwe heard a soft gasp and a rustle of skirts. She halted, ears straining, and saw a flutter of movement in the stairwell. She rushed forward, nearly falling headlong, and glimpsed a flash of white dart lower and into the cellar. Blistering with alarm, Eonwe followed, palming her dagger and peering into the gloom. _Laas_ , she breathed the word, and the bright red glow of a living soul ignited not three feet away behind the large brewing barrel.

Rounding the barrel’s circumference, Eonwe seized the eavesdropper and dragged them into the open, pressing her dagger to the long white throat. The large blue eyes were rimmed with white, distinguished by the brown parting through the irises, like a shadow on clear water.

“Please don’t hurt me!” the girl – Natalia – cried.

“Were you listening?” Eonwe hissed, trying to keep quiet so no one would hear them. “It’s rude to intrude on people’s conversations, or were you never taught that?”

Natalia’s face couldn’t grow any paler, but the fish-belly effect wasn’t doing her any good. Eonwe lowered the dagger, though the prickling sensation of unease lingered in her gut. “I… I saw you come in. I followed you upstairs; I have a present for you.” The barmaid dipped her hand into the pocket of her dress, and Eonwe tensed, half-expecting a shiv to come out.

Instead, a woven cord rested in her palm, two green beads on the ends. They were glass, not emeralds. Though not incredibly intricate, nor the beads fancy, the adornment would have cost her all she might have earned since their last meeting. Eonwe couldn’t bear to take it.

“Natalia…” she protested.

“Please accept this gift, if not as a token of friendship, then as my way of apologizing,” Natalia pressed the cord into Eonwe’s hand, her beautiful eyes candid and sad. “I never meant to cause any harm, I swear.”

_Harm?_

“What are you talking about?” Eonwe brow furrowed.

“I-I clearly gave you reason to worry,” Natalia said softly, her smile sincere. “I heard nothing between yourself and the gentleman, I assure you. I promise no one will know I saw you… offering your company.”

Eonwe’s cheeks stung red. “I’m sorry for this. I thought you were someone else,” she looked down at the small gift in her hand. “Thank you, Natalia.”

The girl paused, her lips parting a little, but she only shook her head and smiled. “Of course, Eonwe. I hope to see you again soon.” She slipped past her, skirts flowing around her legs, and her shoes patted the stone softly as she returned to the tavern and her patrons waiting for their drinks.

Eonwe breathed deeply, smoothed her hair back, and followed once she felt better composed. She still had roughly an hour to find the letters, dispose of them, then return to see Irnskar to Captain Aldis. The thought of Erikur’s face behind bars was enough to bring a smile to her face.

“Someone on your mind?” a familiar brogue spoke beside her.

“What are you doing here?”

Brynjolf pushed back his hood and leaned back in the chair at the table where he was seated. It was a secluded corner, out of sight of the main crowd, but he had a direct line of sight with the main entrance. “I found a potential recruit for us. I agreed to meet them here,” he said. “If they bother to show up. Care for a drink, lass?”

“No, I should be going. I have my own errands to take care of.”

“Here, wait a moment,” he rose and dug in the pocket of his trousers, then held out his hand. A small key dropped into her palm. Eonwe blinked in surprise.

“When did you take this?”

“Last night while you were searching the room,” he said. “I saw it on the desk and thought you could use it.”

“I’m sure I can,” she gave him a small smile of appreciation. “Thanks.”

“Will you be needing anything, milord? Milady?” a small voice spoke behind them, and Eonwe turned to see Natalia. “Oh, hello again, Eonwe! I thought you were leaving?”

“I _was_ until I ran into him,” she snorted, jerking a thumb at Brynjolf. He turned around, in the middle of saying something, and his eyes locked on Natalia. Eonwe saw the barmaid’s smile fell away as she whispered, “Oh.”

Eonwe looked between Natalia and Brynjolf, puzzlement taking a sickening turn into alarm. Did they know each other?

_Nice meeting you. I’m Eonwe._

_I’m Eonwe._

_Oh,_ Eonwe thought dismally, the pieces falling into place. _I’m so blind._

_I’m so fucking naïve._

“So that’s why you knew my name,” Eonwe said. She felt faint, and the room was starting to spin a little.

“Forgive me, milady. I had no idea…” Natalia trailed off, her eyes dewy and brimming with misery. “I’m so sorry. I tried to tell you...”

“How often were you meeting?” Eonwe didn’t look at him, but her question was for Brynjolf. He didn’t answer; he was still staring at Natalia in apparent outright disbelief.

“Only once, milady,” the soft sweet voice answered for him.

“When?” Eonwe ground out.

No one spoke.

Eonwe was utterly wrong. Natalia’s smile hadn’t been sincere, not whatsoever. It was practiced. A lie. A wolf wearing sheep’s clothes. She could see through it now, the truth blossoming like a poisonous flower inside her skull, decaying her mind with violence and rage.

She lifted her eyes, seeing the terrified rabbit quaking beside her. The cord in Eonwe’s hand disintegrated, and the ale bottles on the table next to them boiled, the glass glistening with condensation. Fire woke with her anger, and the smell of ashes filled her senses.

“Liar.” The word was a growl, unfamiliar, barely her own voice anymore. It was a serpent’s hiss, a dragon’s snarl. Brynjolf finally looked at her, his face contorted in anguish and regret…

And fear.

She couldn’t bear to look; she couldn’t fathom possessing the ability to listen to another word spoken by his silver tongue and not question their worth. _Lies. Has it all been lies he’s woven?_

Dropping the key on the table, she spun on her heel, shouldering her way through the patrons before she could allow the flames to consume the last of her control. Dividing a jagged path to the tavern door, she let it slam behind her, final and bitter – a point she hoped would drive the point home.

There were no words left worth speaking.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note
> 
> Before I get into the serious stuff, I would like to express my deepest of gratitude to those who've held on and continued reading this story. Now the hard stuff...
> 
> It has been a nightmare to write Song and to be completely honest with you, I haven't been writing Eonwe's story for several weeks, if not months. It's not necessarily writer's block but it's more along the lines of I've stopped writing entirely. I haven't felt the urge to put my pen to paper for a long time. Song is not done - oh my god it is so very far from over, believe me when I say that - but the task ahead of me is enormous and I can't help but question whether or not I have it in me to actually do this. The Voice Within was an endless struggle, one I finished, but I haven't felt any drive or inspiration to continue Song. No, I'm not saying I'm ending the story and no, I'm still not done with this work. I only want you to know how difficult it has been to churn out chapters, let alone sentences. Nothing sounds right and there isn't enough.... OOMPH to my writing. It feels half-assed sometimes, while the rest feels unnecessary. I have considered cutting sections of the story to give it more flow and bring us to key points a little sooner, because there is already over 70k words to this fic (with this chapter I'm posting today, I think it will be about 80k?). The Voice Within ended at 132k.   
> Song has become much longer than I anticipated and has so much meat on its bones, and it might wind up being longer than TVW was. However, I don't think I have the ability to write such a long fic and maintain it over the period of time I suspect it will be, so I'm considering trimming the story down for something more manageable while retaining everything necessary to make it as interesting as I want it to be. I don't want you guys to be slogging through useless material, and I don't want to be writing it either. The next story-line integrates the Lost to the Ages quest, which opens the door to the first of two huge climaxes. The first is well... spoilers, and the other is a result of said spoiler. The goal right now is to push forward, and I'm not sure if it will help, but I want to do a time jump. This will mean dropping the current threads (or resolving them as quickly as possible) and getting onto the next story-line.   
> I'm a little tired of the current story, so if you guys are wanting to jump forward and keep it fresh, and find out whatever the hell is happening to Eonwe - feel free to drop a comment. Your opinions and feedback are always welcome and, at times like these, I need my audience's thoughts. I knew this fic was going to be a long journey with ups and downs, but I'm starting to lose my focus, and I want to get back on track and see this through.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I've been dragging my feet when it comes to working on this fic because I've had zero inspiration, so I've decided to take a break from writing instead of forcing it and coming up with nothing. It's a source of stress and my writing isn't fresh or interesting. I have completely severed the story line with the conclusion of this chapter, and I'm intending to make a few quick cuts and help the future of this work move along at a better pace. I have entire notebooks filled with ideas and chapter details, but my best writing is when it isn't planned word for word. I don't know how long the hiatus will be, but I do intend to come back to this one and finish it. I knew writing a follow up was going to be a challenge, but I don't want it to turn into a regret. I am terribly sorry to those who are following this work faithfully, but please know I love you all dearly, and Eonwe will forever have an important place in my heart. Her story will be told, just not today. I appreciate the responses on the previous chapter, you've helped me come to this decision, and I hope to see you again soon!

Rainclouds gathered over the Sea of Ghosts, a swelling blanket of purling black and leaden, the rumble of thunder far off but audible even from the rocks overlooking the channel. The warm sunlight had dimmed to a dour grey, the skies overcast and wintery, where the terns and gulls spiralled over the black, frothing water. A salty, icy wind whipped up off the sea, shrilling through the stone arch, and Eonwe felt goosebumps rise on her skin. Her eyes stung as she stared out at the merciless waves, but the tears weren’t brought on by the relentless gale. She bent her head, dashing the hot tracks on her cheeks, refusing to bow to the tightening sensation clamping down hard in her chest. She refused to break.

 _Oh, little dovahkiin, how broken you are_ , the sing-song voice penetrated her thoughts. _I feel enough salt on the wind to cleanse your wounds; there’s no need to add witlessness to your bindings. Although you are so terribly good at cracking under the slightest pressure…_

 _Could you leave me alone for once?_ Eonwe snarled inwardly, trying to ignore the cruel laughter. _I should’ve known you were ready with more jabs._

 _Far from innocence, and she so strongly believes her soul is pure. I’d hate to tarnish your hopes_ , the voice teased dryly. _Spilling your tears like a mewling child; they won’t wash you clean._

“What do you know?” Eonwe said aloud, vibrating with anger. “I don’t need this.”

_Careful, someone might hear. Best they not believe you are insane as well._

“Insane, huh?” she responded, though she did lower her tone an octave. “It was you who told me sanity was an illusion.”

_Ah, you do listen to your elders. I would praise you if I wasn’t already so disappointed in your development._

“My… my elders?” she stammered, and asked hesitantly, “Who are you?”

_Fear not. I will not bring you harm._

“Your words hurt.”

_So is the purpose of truth. Listen well, my foolish mortal, and reap the benefits of our shared knowledge._

“Hah,” Eonwe huffed, shaking her head as if she could dislodge the taunting whisper. “There’s nothing you can say that I don’t know already… whoever you are.”

_I will prove you wrong. Look to the horizon; tell me what you see._

Eonwe, rolling her eyes briefly, bade the voice’s request and looked. “Clouds on the water, a storm. Birds, the sea, the ships.”

_Close your eyes and tell me: What do you see?_

Eonwe chuckled. “Are you messing with me or what? I can’t see with my eyes closed.”

_Your pretend at ignorance is most aggravating. Do as I say._

Eonwe complied with a sigh, flicking her lids shut and casting the world in black. She counted to five for the heck of it. “I’m enthralled. Nothing miraculous.” She declared, tossing her hands up. “Happy?”

It was sudden, memory slamming home, and she reacted with a sharp cry and jolted backwards, nearly losing her seating. A cold sweat dampened her back. She tasted the iron blood on her lips; felt the scorching cleanse of fire; the shattering of a chrysalis as life – enduring and unyielding – found its awakening.

“Why are you showing me what I already know?” Eonwe queried, genuinely confused and uncomfortably afraid, but the answer was clear, centered in the middle of her mind. “H-How long have you been in my head?”

 _And now she sees,_ the voice held the smile of a snake. _In time, you will learn, little dovahkiin. Forever you thought you were destined to walk this world alone but you have never been farther from the truth. I am beside you in every moment; we share one breath, one heartbeat, one desire at the end of our time._

“And that is?” Eonwe insisted.

_To go home._

The word spilled through her veins like honey, oozing through her bloodstream and carrying warmth to the far edges. She could smell petrichor, the rich soil of the garden, the sharp of crushed herbs and roasting venison over the fire; she could hear the crack and pop of the meat as its juices dripped into the ashes of the hearth, the twang of a bowstring and the snap of a metal arrowhead piercing a target, the steady pound and grind of the mortar and pestle; the sweetness of laughter and the shine in her mother’s eyes as her father pressed a gentle kiss to her poultice-smeared cheeks, a ruffle of fingers in her hair.

Intense longing clutched her so tight she couldn’t breathe.

“But it’s gone,” she murmured, the lulling sensation fading.

 _Nothing is ever truly gone, Eonwe. If our wills are strong and our purpose faultless, home can be found again._ The voice softened to a muted whisper before disappearing entirely, leaving only the howling gale and the gathering storm overhead to be heard, but for the first time since childhood, Eonwe had never dared to feel the hope springing to life in her breast.

She was still wise enough to not let it last, and it too faded away as she climbed the hill back to the city.

∞

The recruit never showed.

Brynjolf had waited nearly another hour, avoiding the glances from nosy patrons, buried in a flagon he hardly tasted. The barmaid had upped and vanished, likely keeping her distance after causing such a scene, but he was grateful for it.

It gave him a chance to think about Eonwe. He wondered where she’d gone, if it were better to keep his distance or go after her, try to talk. He wasn’t good at that – talking. Not with her in any case. He was frightened of the reaction he might receive… if he’d receive one at all. All he could see was the vengeful storm in her eyes, mere seconds away from igniting the tavern in enraged flames. She would regret it, he knew her well enough to know she couldn’t let the deaths of so many innocents caught in her rage remain light on her conscious. Never mind him, he deserved her wrath. After all he’d said and done… he deserved this.

But Eonwe deserved so much more. He breathed in shakily, struggling to remain as calm as he could. He wanted to see her, talk to her, tell her he was sorry. No matter how many apologies, she wouldn’t forgive him, not for this – not when the wounds were so raw. He _knew_ but he still wanted to tell her. And yet he was terrified to cross paths with her.

One of these days she was going to lose control, and it was going to be because of him. Maybe it was better he stayed away, better if they let the storm dwindle and burn out on its own. Fuck, like he was supposed to know.

With no further reason to hang about, Brynjolf rose from the table and left the tavern.

∞

Letters folded securely in her pocket, Eonwe followed the quiet street on her way to the tavern. She’d found the sealed envelopes in Falk’s personal quarters; making sort work of the lock barring her way, she’d found them stashed inside a book of poems – of all places – tucked away on the shelf after a cursory but thorough sweep of the pristine and orderly room. The book had been the only item left slightly ajar, moved recently, giving her reason to spot the lighter parchment sticking out from between the yellowed pages.

Pocketing them and leaving without gathering attention to herself, she’d taken the route through the gardens to the secret escape, taking her down the narrow passage in the stone arch, where she’d steered her “borrowed” boat back across the channel to return to the city as quickly as possible.  Gone for just shy of an hour, she climbed the steps to _The_ _Winking Skeever_.

Eonwe hardly paid the tavern residents any notice; panting as she ascended the stairs, she crossed the landing to Irnskar’s room and knocked twice. “Irnskar, it’s me. I have the letters,” she called softly.

When he didn’t answer immediately, she wondered if she’d missed him entirely downstairs, or if perhaps he’d left after all without bothering to fulfill his end of the bargain. Eonwe knocked again, reaching down to try the doorknob. To her surprise, it twisted, and she swung it open on its hinges slowly as to not startle the man inside.

Slumped half on the bed and half on the floor, limbs askew from signs of struggling, the linens were soaked with the blood trickling down Irnskar’s arm to the floor beneath him. Wind ruffled Eonwe’s hair and she raised her eyes, seeing the window propped ajar, the damp marks of someone’s boot soles imprinted on the wooden sill. She loosened the dagger from her belt and entered slowly, checking the corners warily, before approaching the still-warm corpse and groping at his neck for a pulse. Her fingers sank into the jagged rent in his cut throat, and she jerked away in revulsion, hand coming away slick and red.

“Dammit,” she cursed under her breath, backing away and approaching the window. The blood trail led along the edge of the roof, but she wouldn’t see where it went unless she went outside.

 _Someone knew,_ she realized. _Too many people knew where I was going. I should have been more careful…_ Shoulders heavy with the weight of despair, she gripped the sill, nails digging into the dull grey wood. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

There was a crash behind her, and a high, thin scream. Eonwe whirled to see none other than Natalia standing in the doorframe. The girl’s eyes were enormous, ringed with white, delicate features warped into a mirage of absolute terror. Eonwe knew what the barmaid was seeing – Irnskar’s killer, dagger in hand, the other slick with his blood. A picture far from innocence. _Oh, Gods…_

A purl of raw fury ignited within her, not her own. _Silence the girl!_ the voice commanded. _End her foolish shrieking!_

Eonwe was almost inclined to obey when Natalia began to stumble away, the intent to run for help written across her face. She followed in panic, lunging for the girl’s arm. Her hand seized, leaving bloody smears on the white flesh – so thin over light bone.

“No, don’t-” Eonwe begged, mindless with surging alarm as the sound of raised voices came from below. “It wasn’t me, Natalia-”

Natalia shrieked, jerking loose and bolting, and Eonwe followed. As she snatched the back of the girl’s collar, Natalia twisted violently, pulling back as hard as she could as she shouted at the top of her lungs, _“Murderer!”_

Neither of them saw the stairwell.

Falling through space for the briefest of moments, Eonwe felt her stomach lurch as she collided with something small and soft; a sharp _crack_ echoed in her ears as loud as thunder, and she rolled down the stairs, jarring to a halt against the wall. Dizzy, she struggled to right herself, muscles protesting from being battered, and her hand pressed down on a patch of worn cloth, handstitched from the look of it. Mended by her own hands, likely. Natalia lay beneath her, staring up at her face in frozen surprise, long lashes swept wide open, as graceful as butterfly wings.

“Natalia, please l-” Eonwe began, but stopped mid-word, ignoring the people in her peripheral view rushing their way. There was no rise and fall of her narrow ribcage, no blink of her expressive blue eyes broken with brown. The angle of her head was impossible on her neck; it was not her front Eonwe lay upon, but her back. Voices were shouting and she felt hands on her, trying to pull her away, but nothing could deter her focus from the lifeless glaze of those beautiful, horrified eyes fixed on hers in accusation and sorrow.

_I never meant to cause any harm…_

Staggering to her feet, Eonwe could see the city guard pouring through the doors and panic surged through her blood. They would think she killed Natalia and Irnskar, and everyone else for that matter. The crimes would be placed on _her_ head while the killer walked free…

 _A dragon will not be chained,_ the voice of her constant companion whispered. _Run, Eonwe, or extinguish their worthless lives. Choose who you are…_

Eonwe looked down, down at Natalia, down at the blood on her hands. _Murderer!_

Shoving through the crowd, fighting hard for the space to breathe, she bashed her hip off a table's edge and bounced off a post. Voices were raised, fingers pointing her way, and Eonwe felt the fires of accusation combust the same moment her feet propelled her forward and into a run.

She didn’t mean to stop this time.

 


End file.
